


The Saughteling

by Claudia_flies, Hopeless--Geek (wuzzy90), SD_Ryan, zilia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Dream Sharing, Embedded Explicit Images, Embedded Images, Epic Lightsaber Battles, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, MCU Star Wars AU, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Old Republic Era, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Trauma, Violating The Jedi Code
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 17:46:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11856534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wuzzy90/pseuds/Hopeless--Geek, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zilia/pseuds/zilia
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes and Steve Grant Rogers arrive at the Jedi Temple just over twelve months apart.Many years later, a disillusioned Jedi Knight Steve Rogers returns to the Core Worlds at the summoning of the Jedi Council. Instead of following the will of the Council, Steve chooses a different path. His quest will lead Steve to confront a specter from his past and finally open himself up to the will of the Force.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes from Claudia:
> 
> We were incredibly lucky to work with 2 immensely talented artists. Both [Hopeless-Geek](https://hopelessartgeek.tumblr.com) and [SD-Ryan](http://this-simple-mind.tumblr.com/) were absolute pleasure to work with and I am in awe of both of their talent!
> 
> In regards to the writing, I’m the first person to tell you that I don’t play well with others. Like at all. I’ve never played a team sport in my life. So, when I say that writing this with Zilia has been truly a pleasure, I want you to have context. Like the kind of context when me, as an 11-year-old, was made to play ice hockey, my favorite pastime during the games was to try and hit the boys in the crotch with my hockey stick. And not always the boys in the opposing team either… Zilia was so kind, and patient and wrote all the hard stuff so that I could just frolic around in the magical, tropical sex island like mad pixie horse. So, I want all of you to understand that this is here mostly because of her. 
> 
> Really.
> 
> Also.
> 
> During the writing of this fic the authors jointly suffered through: 2 domestic moves, 1 international move, 2 house purchases, 1 car purchase, 1 quitting of a job and 1 pregnancy (WiP, 6/9) so it’s a miracle this story is here at all ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Author’s notes from zilia:
> 
> Firstly, I must second what Claudia says about our artists, [Hopeless-Geek](https://hopelessartgeek.tumblr.com) and [SD-Ryan](http://this-simple-mind.tumblr.com/): they’re both fantastic and we are so grateful for their wonderful art.
> 
> I’ve also never collaborated with anyone on such a long project before, and it’s been amazing to work on this fic with Claudia. She’s a fabulous author and I’m very happy that we could work together on this. (Also, from my point of view, she did the difficult stuff and I just got to write the funny bits ;) and I’m very grateful that she didn’t hit me in the crotch with a hockey stick, which was apparently a risk). 
> 
> It’s been great working on this fic for the past few months, ever since we said to each other “hey, do you know what would be great? A _Star Wars_ Stucky fic,” and just continued from there. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed writing it!

 

 

_**Saughteling, n.:** A coming to an agreement, becoming reconciled; becoming calm or quiet; a reconciliation._

 

 

 _There is no emotion, there is peace._  
_There is no ignorance, there is knowledge._  
_There is no passion, there is serenity._  
_There is no chaos, there is harmony._  
_There is no death, there is the Force._

  
—The Jedi Code (Based on the meditations of Odan-Urr)

 

 

 

They arrive at the Temple just over a year apart. Neither of them will ever know it, but they were born not too far from each other on Level 3674, their families living in the same neighborhood. They could have gone to the same school, played in the same alleyways, been in the same gangs.

Instead, James Buchanan Barnes is the first to arrive at the Temple. A squealing bundle, barely a year old, held by his father. James is their firstborn. Their only child.

After the doors of the temple close behind them, Winnie has to lean on the wall for support. The sob ripping its way out of her like a physical force, like an organ being torn out.

They will have three more children in the years to come, three daughters, none of them Force-sensitive. Both Winnie and George are grateful. They hold their daughters close to their chests, barely letting them play outside at first. Their lives settle into familiar grooves, patterns of ordinary family life, but they never forget James. Keeping a picture of him from when he was firstborn among all the other pictures that litter their living room. With his wide gray eyes and thatch of brown hair.

Steven Grant Rogers is carried by his mother, his face buried in her neck as she holds him on her hip. He doesn’t cry, his breathing hitched and labored. Fingers curled in the neckline of her dress.

He’s been sickly since he was born, and when they’d tested him and found him Force-sensitive, for a while Sarah had thought that they wouldn’t take him, wouldn’t take her boy, but in the end, the call had come. They have the best doctors and the best medicines at the Temple, she is told. It’s the best thing for him, they tell her.

Steve still doesn’t cry when she leaves him at the Temple, watching her with those wide blue eyes. Joseph’s eyes. Eyes that she’ll never see again.

Sarah doesn’t cry either as she leaves. She doesn’t lean on anything for support, just walks down the street, takes the transport pod back to level 3674 and goes to the clinic for work. She doesn’t cry for a long time, the grief locked inside her like a rock in a pond, unseen and heavy, always there.

She never sees Steve again, and her boy never finds out that just days before his fourteenth birthday his mother passed away inside a small clinic on level 3674.

 

* * *

 

Steve doesn’t meet Bucky until much later. He’s five then, still skinny and small and weak. They’re not supposed to, but a lot of the other kids shove him around. Tease him, call him names. Sometimes they steal his lunch or those little marbles he’s been collecting.

His little treasures are scattered on the floor, while nasty laughter rings above him where the others pushed him to the ground. He feels tears caught in his throat, stubbornly holding them in.

The punch comes out of nowhere. There’s will behind it, a tiny whoosh of the Force that Steve feels in the pit of his belly. It’s followed by shouting, swear words they’re not supposed to know, and another punch, and then silence.

When Steve looks up, there’s a boy standing over him. There’s blood running from his nose, but he’s grinning. Offering Steve his hand.

“I’m Bucky,” the boy says as he pulls Steve up from the ground, and then proceeds to help him collect all his marbles and slide them into the little leather pouch Steve keeps on his belt.

In return, he gives Bucky a rag to wipe the blood from his nose, which makes him smile, the little dimple on his chin deepening. There’s a fluttery sense in his heart then, like something finally settling into place.

He puts out his hand.

“I’m Steve.”

And that’s how it starts.

 

* * *

 

The teachers sometimes try to separate them, make them practice with others, place them in different dormitories all the way on opposite sides of the compound. But they find ways to each other; the acolytes more often than not will find them asleep in each other’s beds, or one on the floor by the other’s cot. They both get punished for it, but it doesn’t make any difference.

Eventually, the teachers give up, allowing the boys to room together and practice together. It does marvels for their progress. Steve is still skinny and small, but he’s happier now, more settled in himself and in the Force.

But they both know that nothing lasts forever.

Bucky is seventeen when the call comes for him. Alexander Pierce has chosen him. It’s a tremendous honor to be chosen by one of the great Masters, and Steve knows that Bucky’s trying to be happy, trying to look grateful. Sometimes Steve wonders if he’s the only one to really see into Bucky’s heart, to know that he doesn’t want to go.

They say their teary goodbyes in the courtyard, Bucky swearing to come back when he completes his training, when he’s a full Jedi Knight. He’ll come back and find Steve wherever he is in the galaxy and they’ll have adventures across the unknown regions.

Six months later, Steve knows that none of those promises will ever come to pass.

All of the Council and the Jedi Order mourn when the news reaches them that Master Pierce’s ship had crash-landed on the frozen wasteland of Hoth, killing everyone inside instantly. A rescue team goes to the site, only recovering burnt-out remains of the husk of the ship.

Steve seals those memories in his heart, guarding them fiercely from even the most experienced Master’s gaze. Never letting anyone see how much Bucky meant to him, not now, not when he’s no longer here.

 


	2. Prodigal

 

Steve jerks awake, realizing he’s fallen asleep in his seat again.

He doesn’t have a droid to help him pilot a ship, or a ship at all, come to that, so he’s had to take the long route on a freighter ship heading for Coruscant. Baros is such a long way from anywhere, on the extreme edge of the Outer Rim, that not even trade ships arrive there very often. The summons from the Council came weeks ago, but this was the soonest Steve could arrange to get back to the Core. He could tell that they weren’t impressed with this, but he doesn’t really care. He’s not impressed at being summoned either; if it takes him longer to get back to where he doesn’t want to go in the first place, it’s no skin off his nose.

He’s had plenty of time to brood on this journey about what might be waiting for him when he returns. He can guess, of course. The Council had been disappointed when, after earning the rank of Master several years ago, he had rejected the many glittering, high-profile diplomatic posts in the Core Colonies that were offered to him and had chosen instead to go to Baros to help with peacekeeping, the sole Jedi on the entire planet. They’d tolerated him being there for a few years, but he’d always known they’d summon him back eventually. To be a proper Jedi; Steve can almost hear the inverted commas around the word as he thinks it. They’ll be asking him to be a proper Jedi, and to take an apprentice, and he can’t think of anything he’d rather do less.

Just the idea of being in a room with other Jedi is exhausting to him. Back on Baros, there’d been a fair few Force-sensitive beings coming and going, but for the most part, he’d been alone with his thoughts. His shields are nowhere near as good as they used to be, and neither is his mental discipline. He’s been wandering in his dreams again, letting himself experience stronger emotion than is proper for a Jedi.

He’s trying to decypher what the Force wants in all of this, but he can’t tell. His own reluctance to face the Council is clouding his judgment, and for a while now, there’s been something between his heart and the Force, something that’s been making it hard to find his way.

Part of what he’d loved about being on Baros was that there’s none of the ceremony there that accompanies the Jedi closer to the Core. No escorts, no protocol, no endless discussions followed by inaction. He was _useful_ there, not talking himself in circles with others of his order. Now he’s most likely going to be turned into the bodyguard of some oily diplomat who’ll talk for hours only to do nothing. The thought makes him shudder, and he rests his head against the wall of the ship.

The ship is cold, and slow, and uncomfortable. He’s glad of the thick cloak he’d brought with him; it had been of little use in the heat of Baros, but very good for a draughty freighter. He has his few possessions bundled up by his feet, just his lightsaber, some spare clothes, and his sketchbook. He knows all too well how the Council would frown on the latter if they ever found out about it, but he doesn’t plan on them ever discovering it. The contents of that book are for him alone, and his face glows warm at the thought of them.

This time tomorrow, he’ll be on Coruscant. He’s going to have to work on getting his shields up to scratch again.

Steve closes his eyes, intending to meditate, but eventually ends up wandering into his dreams again.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes, he’s only a couple of hours out from Coruscant, and he needs to freshen up. Spending a few weeks on a freighter has done nothing for his appearance, and yes, the Jedi aren’t supposed to concern themselves with material things, but Steve knows damn well he’ll feel better confronting the Council if he’s had a shower. He’ll need to look the part anyway, if he’s not to incur their disapproval before they even speak to him.

Well, further disapproval.

There’s a shower block on the freighter, and he spends longer than he ought to standing under the hot spray. After years on Baros, it’s still kind of a novelty to have access to hot running water. Of course, it’s not unlimited, but compared to the strict water-rationing out in the Rim, it’s like paradise. Coruscant will be a step up again, far more opulent and temperate than either weeks on a freighter or years on an arid, barren planet.

He feels much better after a shower, toweling himself off and looking at himself critically in the mirror. His hair is longer than usual, falling into his eyes, hiding his face. He likes it. He likes the shadows under his eyes a lot less, but there’s nothing he can do about them. Then he pulls on a new set of robes, a little wrinkled, but clean and untouched by the ubiquitous grime of freighter travel. He tucks his lightsaber into his belt, its weight comforting at his side, and grips the side of the sink, knuckles going white as he tries desperately to clear his mind, to envision the impenetrable wall around his thoughts that he was always taught to visualize at the Academy. It springs up, flickers, and disappears a few seconds later.

Steve growls in frustration and sweeps back to the main cargo bay.

 

* * *

 

The relative brightness of being outdoors after weeks in space hurts his eyes, and the crowds of people in the busy spaceport overwhelm him for a few moments until he gets his bearings. He can sense their thoughts on top of the hubbub of their walking and talking, and it’s like a double hum of noise in his head. He’s got to get his shields up before he gets any closer to the Council. The roaring in his mind combines with his anxiety about the upcoming meeting, and it magnifies to a buzzing panic. He has to get it together before he goes into the Temple and they see right into him.

He closes his eyes and takes a moment to stand still, letting the crowd mill past him as he breathes slowly in and out. He thanks the Force for the living souls that surround him, for their vitality, for the part they play in the life of the galaxy. He wills himself to become part of the stream and to let it flow around him like water over a rock, touching him, but not moving him. It helps, a bit. The wall flickers back into sight, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Better get this over with. Filled with a new purpose, he joins the stream and strides towards the Jedi Temple.

 

* * *

 

Steve has to wait outside the High Council Chamber, because he’d forgotten how infuriatingly condescending the Jedi Council can be when they want to. He should have known that pissing them off would lead to something like this. It’s been so long since he’s had to come face-to-face with other Jedi that dealing with them once again is an unpleasant shock. He stands outside the Chamber like a naughty child, waiting to be called back in, trying to control the annoyance he can feel bubbling in his brain and focus on the hum of the Force instead.

“Master Rogers?”

_Finally_. He gives himself a moment to picture that wall again, takes a deep, calming breath, and then steps into the Chamber.

The Jedi Council is seated. Steve has to stand, which means he has his back to half of them, a set-up he’s never liked. He bows to the room in general, and then fixes his face into what he hopes is a politely neutral expression.

After a few moments of silence, during which he fights to keep the expression on his face, Master Fury speaks.

“Welcome back to Coruscant, Master Rogers.”

“Thank you, Master Fury.”

More silence. He’s not going to make it easy for them. He counts the seconds in his head. _Five. Ten. Thirty. Forty-five_.

“Well, if that will be all,” he says, turning to go, but Fury calls him back before he’s made three strides.

“Master Rogers.”

“ _Yes?_ ”

He grits his teeth despite himself. If they’ve got something to say, they should say it. No use dancing around it like this.

“We have called you here for a purpose.”

_Really?_  Steve thinks. _You could have fooled me_.

They say nothing again, and he can feel his irritation surging.

“Would you like to tell me what it is?” he asks, annoyed that he’s giving in to them, but not wanting to live out the rest of his natural existence waiting for them to tell him what they want without prompting. This is ridiculous. They all _know_ what he’s here for. He’s here because they want him to take on a Padawan, and instead of telling him this via comm they dragged him back from Baros to tell him in person, because it’ll be much, much harder for him to refuse that way.

“Master Rogers. We have tolerated your… _unusual_ career thus far. The Force is strong within you, and you are a talented Jedi. We have supported you through your training despite your reluctance to see it through. We allowed you to take the assignment on Baros. We have called you back here now because we have an apprentice whom we believe will be suited to your rather _unique_ temperament.”

There’s an insult in there, and it’s not even thinly veiled. Steve stands up to his full height.

“I’m very grateful for your offer, Master, but I’m going to have to refuse.”

A murmur passes through the room. The Jedi can’t admit to having anything so base as _emotions_ , of course, but it’s whatever passes for one amongst beings who spend their days locked in the archives and meditating on whose metaphorical lightsaber is biggest.

“Refusing is…unorthodox, Master Rogers,” Fury responds, after a moment to gather himself, because he can’t bring himself to say that it’s _wrong_ , of course. Force forbid the Jedi ever come to any kind of conclusion about anything.

“I can’t have an apprentice. I don’t want one.”

“You fear this,” another voice pipes up, and it’s from behind him, so he has to turn, even though he recognizes the voice. Master Coulson. “You _must_ control your fear.”

“I don’t _fear_ having an apprentice, I just don’t _want_ one.” _Don’t snap, don’t snap, control your feelings…_

“Master Rogers. You are not permitted to defy the will of the Council in this,” Fury rebukes him, and Steve whirls around.

“Then maybe I don’t care what the will of the Council is.”

Fury’s face is impassive; the only sign that Steve has rattled him is the fact that his nostrils are slightly flared. Steve can feel his temper rising, and he has to get out of there before he gives in to his irritation completely. With one last look around the room, he turns on his heel and stalks away.

Once outside, he keeps going, striding away as far as he can without breaking into an actual run. He narrowly avoids pushing over a young woman standing a few feet away from the door as he goes. When he catches sight of her Padawan braid, he’s certain that this was the apprentice the Council intended him to have. What a heartless trick, to bring her here without warning either of them how it might go. Maybe they thought that the sight of her would convince him. He catches a flash of anguish in his mind as he passes her, a momentary sense of a gaping, tearing isolation that’s as painful as it is familiar to him, which cuts through his shields like a knife. For a moment, he almost falters, wanting to turn back, but he brushes it aside and continues on his way out of the Temple.

The kid’s better off without him, anyway.

 

* * *

 

There had only been one bar on Baros. A complete and utter shit hole; a squat, brown building sunk deep into the earth. The alcohol they served was more suited to cleaning out hyperdrive parts than drinking. But right now, today, Steve misses it fiercely. Misses the sand and the heat and even the lack of showers. The grit that got between his toes and fingers, and even into his lightsaber.

Baros had been a home of sorts to him, the first place he had found any measure of peace after…he’s tried to train himself to not think of that anymore. _After_. A full stop. That yawning chasm where his soul should be.

Instead, he goes to search for a bar. Not a glittery one on the top levels that serves alcohol as smooth as silk, sliding easily down the throats of fancy diplomats and smartly dressed businessmen. Even the ones at the spaceport don’t feel right for him, with their rowdy crowds of pilots and travelers trading stories and insults. He takes the transport to the lower levels, something pulling him along like a string beneath his sternum. It takes him a while, but finally he finds it, what some innate instinct in him seems to be looking for. It doesn’t have a name, just a broken sign above the door that says ‘bar’ in several of the galactic languages.

It’s dark inside, and the Ithorian serving at the counter just grunts at Steve, giving him a glass of some kind of opaque liquid without asking any questions. It smells faintly of wet shakwulf, a smell that Steve got way too familiar with on Baros. Now it makes him feel strangely homesick. It’s an odd sensation. He’s never really considered anywhere home. Well, not since…since before.

Steve holds the cool glass between his hands, trying to listen to the hum, the pulling sting in his head that led him to this place, and suddenly, almost as if he’s called it into being, there’s a shadow looming over his drink.

“Well, is that a lightsaber or are you just happy to see me?”

The man has a tidy goatee and sharp, dark-brown eyes. Amusement hovers over him like a physical presence, and also a peculiar sense of interest. He’s leaning on the bar, not too far away from Steve. Stepping closer when Steve doesn’t answer. His smile is slick and he motions the Ithorian for another drink.

“Uh…” Steve says smartly, and wants to smack himself straight after.

The man knocks back his drink with a smooth throw of his arm. “We don’t get many of your type around here in these parts. Lower levels, you know. The name’s Tony.”

He moves closer still, holds out his hand. Steve looks at it. Slowly shakes it. Tony’s grip is firm, his hands calloused. “So what’s a boy like you doing in a place like this?”

Steve just lifts his drink, unsure of what to say, buying time. No one’s tried to hit on him for years, not since he cut off his Padawan braid, and even back then he was pretty good at projecting enough ‘leave-me-alone’ vibes even for those not sensitive to the Force to pick up on. Tony seems to either not notice or not care.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Uh, sorry, I’m not really interested…”

Ignoring Steve’s rebuff, Tony motions to the Ithorian for yet another drink.

“You haven’t even heard me out, it’s a good proposition! Danger, intrigue, a damsel in distress!”

“Look buddy, I’m not into whatever kinky shit you’re suggesting.”

“What?”

“What?”

They both stare at each other as the Ithorian slides two glasses of the foul-smelling liquor in front of them. Steve’s pretty sure the bartender is laughing at them beneath the flat facade of his expression. Tony doesn’t pick up the drink, looking at him incredulously. “What do you think I said?”

“You were…hitting on me..?” But Steve’s less sure now, picking up on the confusion swirling around the other man.

“Oh Lord no! Not that you’re not attractive in that blond, moisture-farm sort of way, but I’ve always had more of a taste for redheads.”

“So what do you want?”

“Well, I have a proposition for you. Like I said.”

Tony takes out a little holo, flips it on, and a small projection of a woman appears, like she’s standing on the counter of the bar. She has beautiful features and shoulder-length hair. Steve assumes that this is the redhead Tony was talking about.

There’s a set of coded coordinates, she says, “help me, Clint Barton, you’re my only hope,” and then the message resets and repeats. Steve can’t pick up an accent from her, her voice strange, without inflection. Suddenly Tony snaps the holo closed with a flick of his fingers. “She’s on the run. A defector.”

“A defector from where?”

“Well, that’s where _you_ would come in, my grumpy new friend.” Tony flicks the holo again and it changes into the galactic map with a trail leading from the core, around the colonies and Mid Rim planets, into the Outer Rim. All the way to Korriban.

Steve blanches.

“You want me to go to Korriban? You’re mad.” He doesn’t even try to hide the disdain in his voice.

“No, not there. That’s where she came from. She’s here now.” He points to a distant planet in the outer rim, a tiny little dot of light. “It’s a mining colony called Bespin. Small, not well-known. She’s hiding out there and can’t get out.”

Tony zooms in on the Anoat sector of the Outer Rim. “My friend Clint, formerly of the CSF, was sent to kill her not too long ago, and he made a different call. Couldn't get her out then, though.”

Steve looks at the spinning holo, the light-up planet he knows nothing about. “So why do you need me?”

“Well, the people after her are….well, a bit beyond our skill set. That’s where you come in.” Steve feels the reluctance in Tony, the edge of a lie, or maybe not quite a lie, but obfuscation. There’s a part of him that wants to delve deeper, discover what Tony’s hiding. He settles on asking, “so, why me?”

Tony fidgets, something fleeting racing across his face, but before Steve can catch it, it’s gone, the confident smile plastered again in its place. “It’s not many a Jedi who comes slumming it in the lower levels. Thought you might be our man.”

Steve looks down at the holo again, the blinking light of Bespin and the little dot that is Korriban. He shouldn’t, he knows that. He should tell Tony that he can’t help. Should tell the Council. Not that they would believe Tony, or help him. He thinks of their stern faces, the demands on him, the expectations if he stays. Feels the gentle pull in his chest.

He downs the vile-smelling drink.

“Alright. I’m in.”

 

* * *

 

Tony has a nice set-up in the less busy side of the southern spaceport. It’s not even in the slummy area, but still manages to be nondescript and bland, with secure doors, three landing pads and a decent-looking apartment attached to the well-manicured courtyard off the landing area. Well, nondescript until Steve gets inside.

Everything is decorated in reds and golds, opulent fabrics and expensive-looking furniture. Steve tries not to ogle as Tony leads him into the main living space and to the three humans sitting around the finely carved dining table.

Tony does the introductions with a pompous air, but Steve can feel the undercurrent of fondness too.

“This is Clint.” A man of a medium build with dirty-blond hair and a bandage across his nose waves a friendly hello from the other end of the table. “He’s our pilot.”

“Bruce” looks the oldest of them all, his hair peppered with gray and his clothes disheveled and worn. Tony continues, saying, "generic science guy" with a wave of his hand, to which Bruce just sighs and rolls his eyes. Steve can feel the irritation mixed with fondness around him. Feel the long friendship there.

“Thor” rises when introduced. His height and the span of his chest put even Steve to shame, holding his hand out to be shaken. “He’s the muscle. Obviously.” Thor barely lets Tony finish, already bellowing, “Welcome, friend!”

“And this…” Tony motions to Steve with both hands like he’s trying to sell a particularly smelly fish at the end of a market day “...is our Jedi. His name is…wait, what _is_ your name?”

“Steve.” He takes Thor’s offered hand and tries to not grimace at the tight grip.

“This is Steve. The Jedi.” Tony adds with a flourish and a smile. Once Thor lets go of his hand, Steve turns back to Tony. “And you are in all of this?”

“Genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist.”

“Right.”

“I wish he was joking,” Bruce says with a wry twist to his lips. It takes Steve a moment to connect the dots in his head. He’s been away from the Core a long time, but not _that_ long of a time. “Stark? As in _the_ Tony Stark? With that big ugly building….”

Tony gives him a hurt look, which just confirms Steve’s suspicions.

Tony Stark, an inventor and a weapons manufacturer who’s swimming in money. In upper-echelon Senator money. It makes very little sense that he’s here, on a small landing pad in the not-so-fancy part of Coruscant spaceport. He could probably buy himself an army to rescue this redhead of his, but before Steve can voice his questions, something bumps into his leg. A strange, squat-looking droid. It twerps unhappily at him.

Tony moves to shoo it away. “Dum-E! Stop bothering the Jedi. Go fix the ramp power converter like I told you to.”

The droid gives a sad trill, but turns and disappears around the corner.

Steve turns back to the group, allowing his mind to probe a little bit, encouraging loose tongues. It doesn’t take long, Clint suddenly looks up, saying, “well this isn’t… totally legal.” Ignoring Tony’s outraged “Clint!”, Steve concentrates on the man sitting down at the table.

“So when you said she’s defecting…”

Clint rubs the bandage on his nose. “It’s not really defecting to a government, more escaping a crazy-ass Sith lord whose existence no one believes in.”

“There are no Sith Lords left.” It’s an automatic response, drilled into him over the years at the Academy. Clint does the universal ‘see, I told you so’ gesture to the group. Steve takes a breath, tries to center himself, searching for any duplicity in Clint and finding none.“Even if I believe you, and I’m not saying that I do. To fight a Sith Lord…”

Clint shakes his head, frustrated now. “We aren’t fighting a Sith Lord, we just need to get Nat out of Bespin and to the core so they can’t get to her.”

“So why do you need me?”

At that, everyone goes silent. Steve can sense the fluttering thoughts in the air around them, the consideration of them trusting him, weighing it up in their minds. He decides not to push this time, to let them trust him now or not. When Clint finally speaks, it’s slowly, haltingly.

“The people who are after her…we don’t have the skills to fight them.”

“You need a Jedi because you think you might run into Sith, or their acolytes.”

The silence is all the answer Steve needs. There’s that tug in his sternum again, the same one that took him out of the Council Chamber, took him into that shitty bar. He tries to quieten his mind, to listen, feel the Force flowing through him. Grasp the threads of the future flowing all around them, the different motivations of the men in the room, the desires pulling at them. He catches something. Something dark, but familiar; but it’s too fast, slipping from his grasp like a tadpole in a steam, nearly invisible. But it leaves something behind; he feels the tug again. Something calling to him from the dark, unseen future.

“Alright. I’ll help you. I have a bad feeling about this, but I’ll help you.”

 

* * *

 

Steve doesn’t have a lot of things to collect. Just his small bag from the freighter. He doesn’t notice the shadow following him as he makes his way back to the spaceport and into Tony’s private hangar. The man himself is preparing the ship for take-off, a thin screen stretched out between his hands.

Thor waves at him from the ramp with a huge smile and a ginormous bag slung over his shoulder. Tony turns to say his hellos, but instead he coughs and points behind Steve, towards the entrance to the port. Even before Steve turns, he feels a flash of it, of that yawning, tearing isolation, and he knows who it is. He closes his eyes, breathes through the flash of pain that it awakens in him.

She’s slight, even smaller than he originally thought in the hall of the High Council Chamber. With long brown hair, her Padawan braid nearly lost in the wildness of it. Her boots and leggings and tunic are all black. _Mourning robes_ , his mind supplies. As she fidgets, there’s a flash of red under her cloak, some fabric sewn on the inside. There’s a small knapsack thrown over her shoulder. Even with her hands twisted in her robes, she looks at him with a set sort of determination. Eyes unnerving, like she can see right through him.

“Master Rogers? The Council has assigned me as your Padawan.” He has a flash memory, of another Padawan. Freshly pressed robes and a knapsack over his shoulder, saying his goodbyes.

The words nearly catch in his throat. “Look, kid…”

“Wanda,” she corrects.

“Look, Wanda…” he tries again, voice still caught up in a memory of that goodbye, so long ago.

“She coming with?” Clint shouts from the ramp, breaking the moment, leaning down from the belly of the ship with a quizzical look on his face.

“Yes,” Wanda says, while Steve shouts “No!” at the same time. He can’t do this. Not again. Not ever. He turns to go.

“If you don’t take me, they’re not going to let me back.”

She stands there. Alone. Left behind. Another flash of memory, sharp and so bitter it makes his teeth gnash. A vision of a thin young man left behind, standing on his own for the first time in years, clumsy with the pain of being alone.

“Is she coming?” Clint asks again, and Steve wonders if he sees more than he lets on.

“Yeah, she’s coming.” He goes up the ramp without looking back.

 


	3. Revelations

 

The sleek, modern ship is a welcome change after his weeks in the freighter.

It’s much smaller, for one thing; heated, for another; far, far more comfortable, for a third. Steve could almost allow himself to relax, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s acquired a small, skinny, sad-eyed shadow. As he walks through the ship, getting his bearings, she follows at his elbow.

The pain the girl is radiating is unbelievable; he can’t discern the reason for it, but its sheer strength requires almost all of his concentration to keep it from affecting him too. It flows over his shields, like a flood of water bursting a dam. He has no idea what to say to her, so he settles for an uneasy, bleeding silence.

He makes his way to the main communal area of the ship, where there are some dining facilities. Tony is lounging over one of the couches, feet on the furniture, idly crunching on an apple. He’s just seeing about getting himself a drink, and maybe offering one to Wanda to break the awkwardness, when a voice, smooth, measured, and almost metallic, comes over the comms.

_“Sir, I am prepared for takeoff.”_

Steve jumps, and so does Wanda a millisecond after him, but Tony merely looks up to the ceiling.

“Great, Jarvis, take us out.”

_“Initiating take-off now, sir,”_ the voice replies, and there’s a slight jolt as the ship begins to move.

“Who’s that?” Steve asks. The voice is unfamiliar, and definitely doesn’t belong to any of the people from Tony’s apartment. It sets him on edge; can the man even be trusted at all, if he’s going to bring in extra crew members?

“Jarvis,” Tony says, after swallowing his bite of apple. “My ship. Well, technically, he’s an AI inhabiting the ship. Sentient. I designed him.”

Then he looks over at Steve and Wanda, and his grin tells Steve that he was thinking that this would be impressive. Steve _is_ impressed – it’s not everyone who can design and implement something that complex – but something in him makes him want to keep that from his face, not wanting Tony to think he’s some technologically illiterate throwback.

“He doesn’t have to _stay_ in the ship, but I think that’s where he’s most comfortable. Gives him some space. Frees up Clint so he doesn’t have to pilot us the whole time. He just loves taking care of us, don’t you, J?”

There is what sounds like a long-suffering sigh from the ceiling. _“Indubitably, sir.”_

“See?” Tony takes another crunching bite, and beside Steve, Wanda winces. “No stress. Why don’t you sit down, relax? You look like you could use it.” He turns to Wanda. “And who’s this? We haven’t been introduced.”

“This is Wanda…” Steve begins, before realizing he doesn’t know her last name. He starts again. “This is Wanda. My Padawan.”

Tony grins. “Didn’t know you had one of those. She trustworthy?”

Steve turns to Wanda. “Are you?”

It’s not like they have much of a choice; the ship’s taking off and they can’t exactly dump her, not after what she said. Wanda nods so earnestly it’s like those big green eyes are going to bounce out of her head.

“Excellent,” Tony says. A droid rolls up, balancing a tray on its head bearing a selection of small pastries, and he gestures to it. “Nice to meet you, PadaWanda. Have some food.”

Wanda edges towards the droid, as if approaching it side-on will make it less likely to spook, and snatches one from the edge of the tray. Then she eats it, daintily, but quickly, in three bites.

Tony says something that sounds like “thank you,” and Steve is confused. He can’t see why either of them would be being thanked.

“What?”

“I said, thanks, U. The droid. That’s his name.”

“Oh.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, during which Wanda snags another couple of pastries. Then she turns to Steve and offers him one, holding it out with a sullen expression on her face.

“Don’t you have to call him ‘Master,’ or something?” Tony says, watching the exchange. The sound of his voice is already starting to irritate Steve. It’s going to be a long mission. “Seeing as the Jedi are all respectful and shit?”

Both Steve and Wanda give identical derisive snorts at this, and then look at each other in surprise. Looking her full in the face is painful, and he quickly tears his eyes away, feeling like a coward. She’s been entrusted to him. He needs to try to find some common ground with her.

“The Jedi are...surprisingly disrespectful at times,” Wanda says slowly. “Such as when they assign a Master a new Padawan without introducing them first, or without discussing it with either of them.”

Red light crackles around her, and Steve suddenly feels the waves of her frustration like a blast of heat. Both he and Tony flinch, and Tony gets hastily to his feet.

“Well, that sounds like the start of a conversation I’d rather do _anything else_ than witness. I’ll just be going. Don’t tear each other apart or anything, okay? U? With me.”

He attempts to leave the room at a saunter, but it’s not quite successful; he walks too quickly for that, and his anxiety is palpable. After a moment, during which it raises an arm to lift the tray and extend it towards Wanda in a placatory gesture – unsuccessful; it resorts to setting it down on the low coffee table – the little droid rolls after him, leaving Steve and Wanda alone. Steve braces himself for a difficult conversation.

“Look, I’m sorry the Council…” he starts, but Wanda interrupts him.

“The Council don’t give a damn about me. They’ve been trying to parcel me off on every Master who comes their way for months. Do you think you’re the first? You must be the ninth or tenth. They try, and when they can’t train me, they give up.”

The red light is back, rising around her like tendrils of smoke, and Steve realises she’s not just frustrated; she’s _angry_. There’s so much anger in her, it’s almost choking her. He hasn’t seen a Jedi give in to anger since his teenage years in the Academy; withstanding the strength of it is difficult, and he takes an involuntary step backwards.

“I have to control it, they say. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Well, I hate them. _I hate them_.”

Even her eyes are glowing red now, and she’s making small objects rise off the surfaces around them. Steve holds both hands out in front of him, fingers spread, doing everything he can to project a feeling of calm, of serenity. He feels no evil in Wanda, but there is fear, anguish, terrible solitude. He has no idea what he can do to calm her down, but he has to try, otherwise the ship could be in serious danger.

“Why?”

“What?”

She didn’t seem to be expecting his question; the smoke tendrils around her falter, and a few of the rising objects wobble in the air.

“Why do you hate them?”

She laughs, a little wild. “You’re not going to tell me that hating is wrong?”

“We’re both Jedi. We know that hate can only lead to suffering, it’s one of the first things we learn. I want to know _why_ you feel this way. How can you change a feeling if you don’t understand it? Telling you you’re wrong without listening to you is just treating you like a child.”

“But the Council said…”

“The Council are a bunch of assholes.”

Everything clatters to the ground, and Wanda turns to look at him in shock, a scandalized expression on her face, her wide eyes fading to their natural green.

“You can’t say that!”

“I can. I just did. The Jedi Council are a bunch of assholes. You can say it too, if you try.”

She gives a nervous giggle, her face lighting up with uncertain amusement, like a child.

“Go on. The Jedi Council…”

He gestures towards her, encouraging her to speak.

“...are a bunch of assholes,” she finishes, then immediately claps her hands over her mouth, looking impressed and scared at her own daring. Steve grins at her.

“They can’t hear us,” he says. “And I won’t tell them if you won’t.” He indicates one of the couches. “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me what happened to you?”

She looks uncertain, but, after a moment, she does as he suggests. He sits next to her, putting enough space between them so as not to crowd her, but not giving the impression that he’s keeping his distance. Her anger has receded, but agitation is still pouring off her in waves. She reaches almost mechanically for U’s abandoned tray and takes another of the pastries.

“We were always together at the Academy,” she says, after chewing and swallowing, and this is so far from what Steve was expecting her to say that he starts.

“Who?” he asks, once he’s recovered.

“Me and Pietro. My twin. We came there together when we were five. My guardians wouldn’t let them take one of us and not the other, until the Jedi gave in. We trained together, until we were separated.”

Steve’s memory takes him back to another inseparable pair at the Academy, and his heart aches.

“What happened?”

“They took him _away_ ,” Wanda says, her voice quavering. “Away from the Academy and away from me. I...without him, I couldn’t keep my powers in balance. I kept breaking things. Hurting people. Not on purpose. I don’t want to hurt people.”

There are old legends about Jedi twins with complementary powers, who were stronger together than they were apart. He’s never come across it in real life before; the Jedi certainly don’t encourage that kind of behaviour now. That they even accepted both Wanda and her brother into the Academy is something of a surprise to Steve; their guardians must have made quite the persuasive argument, especially as they were so old to begin with. Steve has nursed his own sense of loss for years and years, but he knows that his is nothing compared with Wanda’s; he knows, now, why he can feel such a strong sense of isolation from her.

“I believe you, Wanda.”

She looks at him earnestly, tears in her huge eyes. He can guess what’s coming next, and steels himself to ask.

“What happened then?”

“I was kept by myself in the Academy. They didn’t want to send me away while I was so unpredictable, but they couldn’t trust me around the others. I had visits from Masters, special classes. Hours and hours meditating, studying. Nobody was really sure how to teach me to control my powers. I’ve been told they manifest in an unusual way.”

_Unusual_ , Steve remembers from his interview earlier that day, is Jedi Council code for _this doesn’t conform to our narrow expectations, we don’t understand it, and therefore we don’t like it_. He smiles.

“You’re right about that. I was never much of a scholar, but I’ve never come across anyone who can use the Force the way you can. You have a real gift.”

She sniffs and gives him a weak smile.

“You’re the only one who thinks so. My other Masters tried to suppress it.”

“Well, you know what I think about them,” he says conspiratorially, and her smile becomes a bit brighter. “I think if I can find a way to train you…” He breaks off. That’s not why they’re having this conversation. He can sense that they’re moving towards the worst part, and he’s proven right when she says “I was making some progress...if I tried, I could clear my mind, have more control. But then my brother died.”

Steve lets that hang in the air. There’s nothing he can say.

“I wasn’t there,” she says, speaking in a voice of forced calm, although she doesn’t really manage it. “I was far, far away, in the middle of a class. I...I felt him die. In my head. I felt it the moment he died.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but can’t think of anything to say.

“And I lost control. Destroyed the room, knocked out everyone around me. Put my Master into a coma. I felt like I’d died myself. I lost time. Days, maybe weeks. Nobody could reach me. When I next realized where I was, I was in isolation, in one of the cells at the Temple.”

Steve’s never been to the cells, but he knows of them: Force-proof, designed to contain the natural abilities of any Force user and prevent them from harming others or themselves. They haven’t been used in centuries; he’s never heard of a Jedi being imprisoned there before. To use them on a _Padawan_ … The cruelty of it takes his breath away.

“I spent months there. In some ways, it was safest, I understand that; it’s about the only way I could be around people and not hurt them. The Force-proof cells meant I could practice, get the worst of it under control. Apparently, I’m not a danger anymore, so you don’t have to be scared of me.”

Her voice is bitter, and he hears the members of the Council behind her words.

“I’m not scared of you, Wanda.”

She looks skeptical.

“Everyone’s scared of me.”

“I’m not. Look.” He leans back a moment and concentrates, lowering his shields a little so that she can reach into his mind. It goes against everything he’s spent the past few days practicing, but he knows, somehow, that letting Wanda into his head is not the same as letting the Council in. Her presence is not unwelcome; it’s quiet, timid, but he can feel the strength of her abilities in it.

“You’re...really not,” she says, in wonder. “Are you crazy?”

Steve laughs. “A lot of people have said so.”

“They’ve said that about me, too,” she says, and Steve feels such compassion for her, such gratitude that she’s found her way into his life so that he can help her, even if he hasn’t the faintest idea how to do it.

“Well, maybe we can be crazy together. Tell me what happened next.”

She sighs. “They tried to take me out of the cells a few times, give me to a Master for training. I never got beyond the first session with any of them. I begged them so many times just to let me go, send me to some deserted planet where I could be alone, but they kept telling me they’d find a solution. That I couldn’t abandon my training.”

“And the ‘solution’ was me?” Steve asks. How could the Council have thought he’d be good for Wanda? He’s never had a Padawan before, let alone one who presents such a challenge. Nothing in his experience has ever prepared him to take on such a difficult candidate, even if the Council have decided that she’s not an active danger.

Wanda gives a weak smile. “You can’t read people outside when you’re in the cells, but they were a little careless, had a conversation they didn’t realise I could hear. I think the exact phrase was ‘solving two problems at once,’ though ‘the will of the Force’ might have come up once or twice.”

Steve snorts. “Efficient. Sounds like the Council.”

“I think they thought we’d keep each other in line. Or be a punishment for one another.”

He can feel that she’s relaxed; she’s still wary, tired, and lonely, but her voice has lost the edge of desperation it had a few minutes ago.

“I promise I’ll help you, Wanda,” he says. “I don’t know exactly _how_ , but I’ll do my best.”

“Maybe that’s why the Council gave me to you,” she says, thoughtfully. “You’re not a perfect Jedi, but you’re a good man, Master.”

Steve gives an involuntary shudder. “Please don’t call me that.”

She grins, and it’s bright, mischievous. “No?”

“ _No_ ,” Steve says emphatically. “Please, just call me Steve. That’s what everyone called me on Baros.”

“What was it like there?” Wanda asks. “Ever since I came to the Academy I’ve never left Coruscant.”

“And you followed me onto a ship without even knowing where I was going?” Steve asks, eyebrow raised, and she shrugs.

“Better than a cell.”

“Good point.” He considers. “Baros was about as different from Coruscant as you can get. I was the only Jedi on the planet. Helped a lot with peacekeeping. People like Jedi around to settle disputes, be the voice of reason, keep everything calm.”

“And what are we doing here?”

He smiles at the _we_. “We’re on a rescue mission to Bespin. Some defector Clint found. Tony thinks there might be Sith involved, so they wanted a Jedi.”

“Sith?” He feels a flicker of fear from her.

“Yes. But I’m not sure whether I believe that.”

“Okay.” Wanda considers him. “And after this?”

“After this, who knows. I hadn’t really got any further than that. I suppose I’ll be working on training my new Padawan.”

She makes a good point. What _is_ he going to do? The Council aren’t likely to be very impressed with him, given how he left things at their last meeting. He pushes that out of his mind for the moment; plenty of time to think about it after completing this mission. _If we do complete it_ , supplies a pessimistic voice in his head that’s not his own, and he turns to Wanda.

“Don’t do that,” he says, gently. He doesn’t want to push her away, not when she’s experienced so much loss, but he doesn’t want her to get fully into his mind; even if he didn’t have things in there he didn’t want to share, it’s against Jedi etiquette to go roaming around in people’s thoughts.

“What?”

Wanda’s innocent expression doesn’t fool him. “I felt you, trying to get further into my head. Don’t do that.”

“I can see...you’ve felt it too. Loss.”

Steve resists the urge to shut her down completely. He’s just earned her trust, after all, and being able to share her feelings with someone clearly means a great deal to her, especially after being rejected for so long.

“Yes,” he says, hopefully not too shortly. “But I don’t want to talk about it now.”

She withdraws, and to mollify her, he hands her another pastry.

“Thanks.” After a moment, she says, “The other Masters didn’t like me doing that either.”

“Well, you know as well as I do that you’re not supposed to,” he says, trying to keep the reprimand as kind as possible. “It’s not polite.”

“I can’t help it sometimes...with Pietro…”

“You found yourself in his head sometimes?”

“Yes.”

Steve nods sympathetically. “It can happen. That many Force-sensitive beings in one place, the Jedi being so sensitive to the thoughts and feelings of others...sometimes you find yourself sharing someone’s mind, especially if you don’t have full control over your abilities. But you shouldn’t be doing it on purpose, not if you don’t have permission.”

“Sorry, Mas...Steve.”

“That’s okay.” He risks reaching out and patting her awkwardly on the arm, and she seems to soak up the contact like a sunflower. “Just don’t do it again.” Not wanting to dwell on it, he gets up. “How about I introduce you to the team? You only met Clint and Tony before.”

“Who else is there?” Wanda asks, standing up, her interest piqued. Now that they’ve actually had a conversation and he’s given her something to think about, Steve can feel that Wanda’s pain has receded massively. It’s not gone – it’s impossible that something that strong could just vanish – but the mere fact of someone having listened to her and taken her seriously seems to have made it fade. He takes another moment to be appalled by the cruelty of the Council, keeping her isolated and not engaging with her pain. If he ever does make his way back there, he will be having _words_ with them. Reasonable words. Calm words. Definitely not loud words. Probably definitely.

“There’s Thor, and Bruce. Let’s see if we can go find them.”

_“Doctor Banner and Mr Odinson are in the engineering station with Mr Stark and Mr Barton,”_ comes the voice from overhead, and Steve is torn between feeling irritated that it’s apparently been listening to them and feeling grateful that it’s so helpful. Kind of like Tony himself, actually.

“Thank you,” he says, looking up at the ceiling and wondering whether that’s enough for the voice to hear him.

_“You’re welcome, Master Rogers. You will find the cockpit if you exit the door to your left and follow the corridor,”_ says the voice, anticipating his next question.

“Thank you,” he says again, and he does what the voice suggests. The corridor is wide enough for Wanda to take up her former position at his elbow, and they walk side-by-side in a much more companionable silence than they did when they first boarded the ship. It opens out into a wide space that’s half-engineering bay, half-laboratory. Tony and Bruce are standing at one of the benches, having an animated conversation; Tony is waving a wrench very close to Bruce’s face, although Bruce doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed by this. After a brief glance around, Steve locates Clint, who is perched on a high shelf watching Bruce and Tony talking, while Thor is sitting in the corner looking at something on a screen. The little droid from before has another tray on its head, this time supporting a selection of computer parts and some assorted wiring.

Steve clears his throat.

“Um, guys?”

Tony stops mid-sentence, and everyone turns to look at them.

“I’d like to introduce you to my Padawan, Wanda.”

“Wanda Maximoff,” she adds, and Steve repeats, “Wanda Maximoff,” glad to know her last name at last.

Clint jumps down from his perch, landing like a cat a few feet in front of them.

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, holding out a hand, which Wanda shakes.

“An honor to make your acquaintance, Padawan Wanda Wanda Maximoff Wanda Maximoff,” Thor booms, making his way over to them. When he reaches Wanda, he bends gracefully and kisses her hand, which makes her giggle.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Thor, would you knock it off with the Alien Space Prince act? Nobody believes you.”

“I protest, I have no idea what you mean, Friend Tony,” Thor replies, but the twinkle in his eye makes it clear that he does. Clearly, this is some joke between them.

“You already know me, PadaWanda,” Tony says, “and this is our…”

“Doctor Bruce Banner,” Bruce interrupts, making his way forward and looking like he’s pleased to be able to introduce himself for once. “I won’t shake your hand, I’m covered in lab dust.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Wanda says. “Sorry for crashing your mission.”

“Are you kidding? The more the merrier,” Tony says. “As long as you don’t get us killed. You won’t get us killed, right? Sorted out whatever differences you had back there?”

Wanda hangs her head. “Yes. I’m sorry, I know…”

“Things got kind of hairy in here too,” Tony barrels on. “You’re not going to levitate anything else? Got that under control? Because –”

“Tony,” Steve steps in, putting himself slightly in front of Wanda. “Wanda is completely safe. She’s not going to damage anything on the ship. I have total confidence in her.”

Steve senses Wanda relax, and when he turns to look at her he notices she’s even given a slight smile at his words. Good. Her outburst of temper was bad enough in the communal area; in a lab, it could be much worse. He has to hope that there won’t be another one.

 

* * *

 

Steve’s never been to Bespin, never had a reason to travel to this particular region of the Outer Rim Territories. The Tibanna gas mines are famous, even in the Core, but Steve doubts that many in Coruscant care what heats their homes and offices. _Too busy being the center of the known universe_ , he thinks grimly.

The journey had been fairly uneventful. He’d done a few meditation exercises with Wanda, and she’s pretty much glowed each time he’s praise her, no matter how small. Steve had never been very good at teaching, but he’s starting to think that maybe he and Wanda are good for each other after all. It’s not like he’d ever say it to their faces, but maybe the Council were onto something. Even if they’re still a bunch of assholes.

Jarvis easily pilots the ship through the landing sequencing for Tibannopolis spaceport, but only after Tony’s wired a few hundred credits to the landing tech to keep their arrival off the books and the landing pad open for a hasty departure. Steve doesn’t approve, but he doesn’t say anything, even after Wanda side-eyes him, sensing his disapproval.

When Steve comes out of the cockpit, she’s strapping on her lightsaber and fastening her robe, the red lining flashing around her legs as she moved. Steve places a hand on her shoulder and pushes her back into the seat in the main cabin, making the holographic paws of the interrupted game of dejarik flicker.

“You’re going to keep Tony and Bruce company, kid.”

“I know how to handle myself,” she grumbles in response, and Steve feels that slight red charge of Force from her hands, trying to not flinch away from her. He knows how scared she is of this particular skill of hers. He tries to calm his mind, make his words gentle.

“I’m sure you do, but if you want to do this Master-Padawan thing, you’re gonna have to listen to me.”

She stares at him mulishly, her arms crossed over her chest. Steve just sighs, but can’t bring himself to correct her behavior. This is why he should never have been made anyone’s Master.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, kid, so just help Tony keep the engines hot and protect our getaway vehicle, okay?”

“Fine.”

She shuffles out of her cloak and goes past him into the cockpit. Steve can hear her speaking to Jarvis in a low voice, but doesn’t hear the response. Clint and Thor are strapping on their weapons in the anterior hall when Tony suddenly pulls him aside.

“Listen, the tech said that there was another ship, arrived just after us, which had also been generous enough to give a little donation to him. So watch your back, alright?”

“He told you all of this?”

“Well, yeah, I paid more than the other guy.”

Steve can’t help grinning at the ludicrousness of the statement. At the benefits of wealth.

He hides his Jedi robes underneath a shapeless, dark cloak, the one that had provided him protection and warmth on his journey from Baros. It feels fitting to use it to hide himself now. Clint hits the release and the exit ramp lowers in front of them, opening to the gray afternoon of Tibannopolis shipyard.

Clint leads the way through the bustling shopping district attached to the spaceport. Tibannopolis is the uglier cousin of the shiny and beautiful Cloud City. It’s much poorer and home to the not-so-scrupulous operators who get away with failed safety checks and paying less than the minimum wage because the local political leadership is on the take. Or that’s how Tony had been describing the city on the flight over, anyway.

He can see why someone would choose this place to hide out in. There’s no sign of any kind of local law enforcement, even though most people seem to be armed to some level or another – a blaster hooked on a belt or a vibro-knife slipped into a boot shaft – but no one bothers them, Thor’s and Steve’s combined sizes enough to keep most petty criminals at bay.

Clint keeps referring to the handheld strapped to his wrist, with Jarvis constantly relaying instructions to him, plotting the best route through the main part of the city. Eventually, they end up in a dank and dark industrial estate, huge gas cylinders and containers littering the streets. Trash and industrial run-off fills the gutters. Small shacks built leaning against the factory walls and into every small alleyway and lean-to. Everything smells of decay and rust.

The whole area is making the hairs on the back of Steve’ neck stand on end. Something static and unnerving coming through the Force, something he can’t really catch even when he tries to follow it. Something both familiar and alien at the same time. He tries to concentrate harder and ends up running into Thor’s back when their party stops at a crossroads.

The shack that Clint has led them to is almost nothing more than a squat little hovel. The edge of the industrial estate is littered with them. Built leaning on each other with little privacy or sanitation. The cleaners and engine greasers who no one cares about as long as the gas keeps flowing into the Core live in these parts of the city.

Clint leans and raps on the door twice. “Natasha. It’s me.”

After a long, still moment, the door opens just enough for the barrel of a blaster to fit into the gap. “Prove it.”

“I’m your only hope?”

“Jeez, Clint, only you can make that sound like a question.” Then the door finally opens and a slight, red-headed woman stands in the doorway. She looks beautiful, in a cold sort of way, her age difficult to discern. Steve tries to probe, extending the tendrils of his senses out, only to come slapping into a mental wall so strong and high that it makes his breath catch.

“Don’t try that with me, Jedi” she snaps, looking straight at him past Clint and Thor. Her green eyes blaze with a kind of fire Steve’s only seen once before.

“Are you…?”

“No. I can – I can do this part. I can sense you, but…” Maybe she senses his question already, and snaps again “don’t ask, I’m not like you!”

Clint moves to catch her gaze. “I’m here now, we’ve got a bird in the spaceport ready to go.”

She smiles at him, soft and, for a brief fraction of a second, unguarded. Steve’s caught off-guard by the sudden change in her demeanor, distracted by it, when the sensation slams into him, like a wave of black tar swallowing him whole. A hopeless chasm, a walking nightmare behind him. He sees the recognition, the shared sense of dread reflected in Natasha’s face. She’s feeling it too, but unlike him, she seems to know what it means.

“You’re too late. He’s already here.” There’s resignation in her tone, like the battle’s already fought, but she’s pulling out her blaster nonetheless. Clicking some kind of wristbands around her arms until they glow blue. In response, Clint pulls out his own blaster, looking around the area, in the sudden deathly quiet that’s fallen around them.

“What, what’s going on?”

Steve can now hear the hum of Natasha’s wristbands, sense the electricity charged into them.

“It’s the Winter Soldier, he’s here to bring me home.”

The way she says _home_ makes shivers run down Steve’s spine, a sudden chill in the air. The feelings her mind suddenly projects past her metal shields.

“He’s a ghost story. Never misses his target, never gives up on a mission.”

As if on cue, the narrow alleyway between the squat buildings darkens, the lights from the nearby factories flickering out, dimming. The steam from the exhaust pipes and the natural fault lines from deep within the city thickening around them like fog. But it all feels unnatural, the warning hum in the Force strengthening to a fever pitch in his mind.

Then, in a flash, Natasha takes off, sliding between the shacks, her body disappearing from view. “Natasha!” Clint yells, but Steve doesn’t have time to watch her go or chase her down, because there’s a shadow moving towards them from the dark. The sway of its measured steps, the flicker of static through the Force, the dark rolling nightmare enveloping him. It pulls him into the dark and he knows it then, like a sudden revelation, everything finally making sense. That pull under his breastbone, that bar, Tony, Wanda, the Council. It’s all been leading him to this moment. This is the place the Force has been taking him towards.

“Go, I’ll cover you. Get them to the ship,” he yells at Thor, breathing in, pulling, gathering the Force around himself, finding his center, the light that still burns in his heart, the space that’s always just held one name.

_Bucky._

The Council, his Masters, they never understood, never approved of the way he finds his strength, his center of gravity. Steve sheds his coat, letting it pool on his feet like an ocean of darkness, revealing himself, his hand wrapping around his lightsaber. Pulling it from his belt like an extension of his hand.

He sees the eyes first in the gloom; dark, icy and haunted. The rest of the man’s face is covered by a black mask, his nose and mouth hidden under a stiff muzzle, like on an animal. The stranger’s hand goes to his belt too, and then the familiar snap-hiss fills the air as the bright red glow of the enemy combatant’s lightsaber glows in the space between them.

“Steve? Steve, what’s going on?”

Clint. He sounds out of breath. Steve shakes his head; he can’t allow himself to be distracted now.

It tugs under his breastbone, that pull willing Steve forwards. He knows what the color means, lets his fingers move on instinct born out of years of training, the snap-hiss of his own blade and the corresponding blue reflecting between them now as well.

He tries to reach out to the stranger, to this Sith in front of him, to touch that rolling blackness. Because it is a Sith. He knows it for sure now, can feel it in the anger and hate and despair welling between them like the ocean rolling in, like a gathering sandstorm.

The Sith’s left side is exposed, the sleeve of his tunic removed, revealing an intricate metal arm. The symbol of his order, of the Sith, etched into the shoulder as a stark reminder of who this man is.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight. You can still walk away.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Clint insists. “What’s happening?”

Then the other man attacks, their blades colliding with an angry hiss. Sparks in the air, and the pressure in Steve’s head increases; he hears nothing but the static of his mind. He breathes, pulls strength from that light in his core, letting the Force flow through him. Letting it guide his hand, to move his body. It’s like a dance between them. Parry and thrust. Flip and counter.

He feels the sharp tug when the Sith extends his will beyond the circle of their fight, searching, looking for the others.

Steve is not his mission.

Clint is in his ear, panting as he runs through the streets. “Steve, I’m chasing down Natasha. Going to try and get us both back to the ship. What the hell’s going on down there, where are you? I’m just… _shit_.”

There’s an ominous _clang_ from the earpiece, followed by the sound of Clint hissing with pain. “Aww, girders. NATASHA...”

“Steve?”

“Master Rogers?”

Now both Thor and Clint are howling at him through his earpiece. He can’t let himself be distracted, not now. He feels the Sith reaching out, his left hand like a claw in the air, pulling the Force around him like a twisted nightmare. Steve rips his earpiece out of his ear and throws it to the ground.

There’s a brief moment of silence, and then Clint’s voice crackles out of the earpiece again, clearly audible to both Steve and the Sith from the ground.

“Steve, I’ve cornered Natasha in the control room to the west, see whether you can get to us…”

The Sith takes off running, crushing the earpiece underfoot as he goes. Steve can’t let him go; he has to give the others a chance, so he gives chase. He twists and reaches out, his hand grabbing the heavy fabric of the cloak billowing behind him as they race down the narrow passageway. He pulls back, letting his body weight do most of the work, the Sith’s shoulder colliding with his sternum.

There’s a grinding sound and then the Sith’s hand is around his neck. Crushing his airway like a vice. It’s made of metal, interlocking plates clicking as he squeezes the air slowly out of Steve’s lungs.

Steve braces himself, bends his knees, pulls from his center, tugs the Force around him like a shield, and then he yanks, twisting the man off his feet and over his shoulder. The man flips through the air, crouching and landing on his feet, with his black mask scattering into a gutter at the side of the street. The dirty water and industrial waste soaking the material. Swallowing it up.

He turns on the balls of his feet, his lightsaber angled down, protecting his legs. The bright, angry red hissing in the darkness. Watching Steve through the bangs of his long hair. Those icy blue eyes that suddenly belong to an achingly familiar face.

“Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Then he attacks. Aggressive and angry, but there’s confusion too, wild animal fear.

Steve isn’t protecting himself anymore; he’s just reaching out now, pushing his mind with more violence than he has ever before, pressing and forcing himself through the barriers of Bucky’s mind, though those dark horrors that surround him. The despair and anger clogging his thoughts, overwhelming and all-consuming on every side and Steve feels like he can’t breathe.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

Then he catches it, something brief and slippery and familiar. The glint of a little marble, the smooth fingers of a boy between his own bony hands. The press of sleeping bodies and of comfort forgotten.

“Bucky, Bucky!”

“Steve?”

There’s a brief flash of wonder, of recognition, and then pain, pain and darkness, and Steve lets go, follows Bucky, pushing his mind to go wherever his friend needs him to go. He will follow, always. To the end of the line.

They both fall, bodies heaps on the ground, their blades crossed between them. Hissing and spitting up sparks in the dark of the alley.

 


	4. Dereliction

 

He’s dreaming. Steve can recognise the shape of it, the world around him that’s not real, but it pulls him under like an undertow, dragging him out to sea.

 

He’s at the Academy, at the Temple, those dusty rooms and endless corridors, but the light filtering in through the columns is gone, the sky dark with ash and the fiery red of a dying star. There’s sand in the air, heat like a furnace around him, oppressive and horrid in ways that the reality of his youth never was.

 

This is not his dream.

 

A boy runs past him. A blur and a shadow, and then he’s small too. Young and gangly, knuckles torn up and bruised. He turns and runs after the boy, like he always did, shouting his name.

_Bucky._

The boy doesn’t turn. Doesn’t stop the way he always did. Doesn’t seem to hear Steve at all. Steps echoing in the hall, and Steve can’t catch him, breath stuttering in his lungs, stunted like he was. Left behind, sand in his mouth until he can no longer scream or breathe.

The fire consumes him and Steve tries to scream again, but there are no sounds coming from him.

_“Bucky!”_

The searing heat across his skin, across his body, burning him up, stripping the flesh from his bones, stripping away all that he is until he’s nothing but ash.

 

He’s in the corridor again. Looking at Bucky’s retreating back. Running, chasing. His lungs seizing until he can’t breathe.

The rolling heat around him. He screams, but no sound comes out, ash in his mouth and nose. The crushing weight of the dying star pressing into him. He burns, flesh and skin flaying off his bones until he’s nothing but ash.

 

He’s in the corridor, a flicker of light from the spinning marble in front of him. Ash and heat. His lungs tight in his chest. He burns and dies, ash scattering in the wind.

 

He burns again, nothing but ash.

 

He hears his name. Desperate, sad.

 

_“Steve!”_

 

Steve wakes up screaming. There’s an echo of a sound across the ship, he can feel it, an echo of his own pain reflected across the Force. Someone else who also felt the flames, disappearing into the heat and the dark. Someone called his name. A voice he knows.

He rolls off the cot. He’s in the medical suite, alone, with only beeping monitors surrounding him. He can feel Bucky now, like a thread pulled taut between them, and he follows that mental thread to the brig, where Bucky’s shields slam into him with near-on physical force, making Steve stumble, reaching out to hold the edge of the cot to steady himself. He feels dizzy, unmoored and out of control. The Force crackles around him in a way it hasn’t since he was a boy.

He wants nothing more than to reach out, to touch Bucky’s mind, to check for injuries, but the wall is clear enough indication of Bucky’s wishes.

 _Bucky_. He’s alive, the thought in itself makes his stomach roll. He’s here, now. Dark and twisted. _Evil_ , the Council would call him. He feels Wanda in his head then, a light touch of her mind, careful and so well controlled that he wants to praise her for it. It’s almost a welcome distraction. She seems to sense it along the connection, bashful and happy. Then she’s opening herself up to him, inviting him in, to see and hear.

Steve can see through Wanda’s eyes, hear through her ears. He’s only done this a handful of times, and it takes him a couple of moments before he can make sense of what’s going on around him. She’s sitting slightly to the side of the discussion, in the sole armchair. Everyone else is crowded onto the two couches, leaning forward, talking earnestly.

“...saying is, he’s _dangerous_.” Tony is waving his hands emphatically as he talks. He’s holding a wrench that he keeps idly passing from hand to hand, getting dangerously close to Bruce’s nose on occasions, but Bruce just gently pushes his hand away, evidently used to it. “Red Death over there was scared of him, that’s all we need to know.”

‘Red Death’ is apparently Natasha, who scowls at the nickname.

“Hey, her name’s Natasha,” Clint says, in what is perhaps the least necessary leap to anyone’s defense ever made in the entire history of leaping. Natasha is glowering, and she’s radiating menace. Steve can well understand why Wanda’s keeping her distance

Even the non-Force-sensitive people in the room are reluctant to get near her; despite the cramped seating area, not designed for so many people, Natasha has the bigger couch, and there’s a massive empty space on her right-hand side. Only Clint seems unbothered, sitting to her left. Thor, Tony, and Bruce are all uncomfortably squashed onto the smaller couch.

“I have good reason to fear the Winter Soldier,” she says, her voice low and measured. “He trained me for years. They sent him after me when I left. And he’s ruthless.”

“ _And_ he knocked Steve out,” Tony says, in a tone of voice which suggests that that’s all that needs to be said. Steve is touched by his loyalty.

“Do we even know how he did that?” Bruce asks. “What happened in that alleyway?”

Tony shakes his head, but Bruce isn’t talking to him. He’s addressing Wanda, perhaps because she’s the only Jedi in the room.

“I don’t know,” she says, slowly. Steve can feel her thinking carefully, trying not to give away that he’s observing their conversation, and he’s grateful. “I think it was some kind of psychic knockout. But without being there, I can’t be sure.”

“They were both unconscious when I went back for them,” Thor says.

“ _Why_ did you bring him here in the first place?” Natasha snaps. “Why not just bring Steve and leave _him_ there to rot?”

Steve bristles at her hostility to Bucky, but he can tell, under her words, that she’s scared out of her mind. _Bucky. What did you do to her? What did she see you do?_

“I-I cannot say,” Thor is hanging his head and looking very guilty. “I saw fallen warriors. I thought perhaps a bounty…”

This isn’t true, Steve can tell; there’s something Thor isn’t saying. But he doesn’t care much what it is for now. Not if it got Bucky onto the ship with them. Nobody else seems to have noticed his obvious deception, however. Tony throws up his hands in exasperation, and Bruce nearly loses an eye to the wrench.

“Thor! I have money! I have all the money any of us could ever want! It’s not worth Murderboy in there going rogue and killing us all in our sleep! Why doesn’t anyone else see what a gigantic problem this is?”

“I was only trying –” Thor starts, and then Clint cuts across him.

“He can’t kill us if he’s in a secure holding cell. Which he is.”

“Look, Clint, you’ve got your reformed bad guy, you don’t need to adopt another one…”

“Hey, watch what you’re –”

“Tony. Clint.” Bruce is calm, yet firm, and for some reason, they both stop talking and listen, even though he’s barely raised his voice. “There’s no point arguing about what should have been done. What’s done is done. We have Natasha, and we have, um, what did you call him?” He looks politely over to Natasha, and she says “The Winter Soldier” sullenly, eyes on the ground.

“We have the Winter Soldier,” Bruce continues smoothly. “We don’t know if he’s ultimately dangerous, but for the moment he’s not a threat; he’s locked up, and anyway, he’s unconscious. Master Rogers –” he feels Wanda’s amusement that everyone is calling him this with no knowledge of how much he hates it “– is also unconscious. Has he shown any sign of waking up?” he asks, turning to Wanda.

“No,” Wanda says calmly, and Steve is impressed at her ability to lie despite knowing that as her master he should disapprove. He can feel her glowing under the silent praise.

Bruce sighs. “Well, let’s hope he does soon. I’ve got no idea how to treat what I’m assuming are mental injuries. But anyway, we need a plan in the meantime. What were we going to do before we picked up the Winter Soldier?”

“I was going to go back to Coruscant to my gigantic house and my lab and my pretty excellent life which was entirely devoid of mysterious murderers,” Tony mutters. Bruce ignores him.

Thor shrugs. “I suppose I was going to return to Tony’s.”

“I was going to stick with Natasha,” Clint says, in a voice which suggests he’s only just working this out as he voices it.

Natasha is looking at him in astonishment.

“ _Why_?”

Cint is looking back at her, equally confused.

“Because...because I thought that was what we...no?”

Momentarily distracted from the matter of Bucky, everyone stares at Clint. Whatever he thought was happening between himself and Natasha, it’s clear that it was the furthest thing from Natasha’s mind.

“You came to help me…” Natasha says slowly. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, but you can’t just be _alone_ now,” Clint says, “not if there are going to be people coming after you! I can protect you if–”

“Okay, okay, this is very touching and interesting, you can go pick out matching dishes for the wedding registry and write your own vows later, can we get back to the matter of _the murderous assassin currently in our brig?_ ” Tony interrupts through gritted teeth, and Clint tears his eyes away from Natasha and says “oh, yeah.”

“What can you tell us about him?” Bruce asks Natasha. “Is he really that dangerous?”

Steve’s also curious to know this. Clearly the Bucky he knew is deeply buried, if he’s there at all. Who is the Bucky that Natasha knows?

“Yes,” Natasha says immediately. “The deadliest Sith I ever encountered. Entirely without mercy. I have seen him murder rooms full of people with no remorse.”

A shiver goes down Steve’s spine. That can’t be right. He looks around the room, taking in the expressions of everyone else. He can feel Wanda’s uncertainty; Clint, too, looks wary, like he’s being won over by Natasha’s opinion. Bruce and Thor are difficult to read. Tony, however, looks like all of his worst suspicions have been confirmed. He looks around to the others, palms spread.

“Come on, guys. We can’t keep him on the ship.”

“He’s in a cell,” Bruce says, sounding like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable.

“For how long?” Natasha demands. “What happens when he escapes? He will. He’s more cunning than you could ever imagine.”

“We’re dropping him at the nearest planet. Immediately. I don’t want him on my ship,” Tony says. “Jarvis, plot a course to the nearest habitable world.”

Natasha growls. “Not good enough.”

“Well, what’s the alternative, Nat?” Clint asks, turning to her.

There’s a horrible, ringing silence in the room while it becomes clear that Natasha is thinking of some alternatives, none of them good, while fingering the blaster in her belt. Tony blenches, clearly unwilling to go that far, but Natasha gets to her feet, looking determined, and has stalked halfway across the room before anyone else has registered what she’s doing.

“What?”

“You can’t –”

“I can. And I will. If I don’t, he’ll kill us all.”

 _No._ Steve feels powerless, panicked, and he thinks _Bucky would never hurt me_ , deliberately ignoring how recently he attempted to do just that. He can’t help it; it’s his strongest instinct, his deepest-held belief. Then Wanda says “Bucky would never hurt him,” in a strange tone of voice that’s not her own.

Everyone in the room turns to look at her, and, as one, they chorus “who the hell is Bucky?”

Steve freezes. He can’t believe he just did that. Taking control of someone is one of the greatest violations of the Jedi Code there is. Taking control of his own _Padawan_...it doesn’t bear thinking about. He drops out of Wanda’s mind, shocked at what he’s done. Never mind that he didn’t mean to. She’s been entrusted to him for only a few days and he’s already been worse to her than any other Master she’s had.

He’s distracted by his shock for a few precious seconds, and then he remembers, with a horrible thrill of fear, what Natasha was doing. And now he can’t see her. He tears the IV out of his brachial artery and leaps out of the bed. Everything spins for a while before he can get his eyes to work and his head to stop spinning. Then he’s pelting down the corridor, barefoot, bouncing off the walls, desperately trying to work out where Bucky is, where Natasha is.

He reaches out with his mind, finds the throbbing center that’s always been _Bucky_ to him, and follows it, like he’s following the sound of his own heart. The cells. They said he was in a cell. By some miracle, he’s in the right corridor; he turns to the left, and sees two figures at the end of it. Natasha’s evidently had enough time to open the door and release Bucky from his shackles; she’s now marching him towards the end of the corridor, blaster in his back. But what Steve is seeing doesn’t make sense: Bucky’s much taller and twice the width of Natasha, even without taking into account the metal arm and the tremendous control of the Force he’s radiating, yet he’s meekly walking, head drooped, arms by his sides.

“What are you doing?” he shouts, skidding to a halt and colliding painfully with the wall. Now that he’s stopped running, he realizes that his head is spinning again, and he takes a long, shaky breath. The short run has really taken it out of him.

“I’m doing what we should have done in the first place,” Natasha says. Her voice is quiet, but the determination in it carries.

 _Why doesn’t she just shoot him, then?_ Steve wonders, and he wants to clamp down on the thought as soon as he’s finished it, because he doesn’t want to give her ideas, and then he has a wild urge to laugh. He’s torn between wanting to go to Bucky’s side and wanting to conserve his energy in case he needs to use the Force to deflect a blast, which will be near-impossible in his current state, but he doesn’t want to go down without a fight. He still doesn’t understand why she’s wasting time walking Bucky away, and then he realizes, with a horrible jolt, that there’s an airlock at the end of the corridor.

“No,” he whispers, and Natasha holds his gaze, eyes steady.

“It’s the only way.”

“ _No_ ,” he says again, and makes a move towards them, leaning on the wall for support. He can’t control his emotions anymore, his desperation and panic leeching out of him, crackling through the air like static electricity. It feels like it takes him a long time to travel the short distance, and Natasha watches him uncertainly as he moves, unsure whether she should take her blaster off Bucky to discourage him from coming any further. He’s almost there when he hears voices come round the corner, and the others come into view.

“What’s happening?” Tony demands. “Natasha, are you crazy?”

Tony is at the head of the group, with Bruce, Thor, Clint, and Wanda not far behind. They all freeze at the strange sight in front of them, at Natasha clearly having overpowered someone much stronger than her, and at Steve making his pitifully slow way towards them. He’s almost there, he just needs a few more steps...

“We cannot have him on the ship,” Natasha insists, still speaking so quietly, but everyone can hear.

“You can’t just throw him out the airlock, Natasha!” Clint says, sounding shocked. Tony cringes and makes subduing gestures at him, evidently terrified of aggravating Natasha, even though they were the only ones keen on getting rid of Bucky. Clint ignores him and takes a step closer.

“Nat, you don’t need to do this. Give him a chance. I gave you one.”

Natasha’s face remains resolute, but Steve thinks he senses a flicker of something at that. Guilt, maybe. But she stands firm.

“He is dangerous. He could kill us all.”

“Surely we can work something out –” Bruce starts, but he’s interrupted by Bucky speaking for the first time.

“No. I’m not worth this. Open it. I’ll go.”

“Bucky, _no_ ,” Steve starts, leaning forward and grabbing his arm, but Bucky just brushes him off, like his touch is nothing, like his words mean nothing, and Steve takes a step back like he’s been burned, the pain of Bucky’s complete indifference to him stinging. Bucky turns to Natasha.

“Do it.”

“If you throw him out, then you’ll have to take –” Steve says, but Tony grabs his arm and pulls him away.

“Don’t be a fool, Rogers. Whatever this is, it doesn’t involve you.”

“Yes it does!” Steve yells. “He’s my friend!”

“So are we,” Tony yells back, “And unlike him, _we_ seem to reciprocate!”

“But…”

“Silence,” Thor says, and they all turn to watch what’s happening between Bucky and Natasha. She’s lowered her blaster and is looking at Bucky in amazement.

“You really believe this,” Natasha says, half-wondering, half-incredulous. Steve can feel her clumsy probing. “You intend to let me do it and not fight me.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bucky says fervently. “Please. Do it. I want it to end. I can’t go back.”

“ _No_ ,” Steve says, reaching weakly towards Bucky with his mind, but it’s no good; his shields are like walls of concrete, completely blocking him out. He thought that losing Bucky against his will would be the worst thing that would ever happen to him, but watching him voluntarily walk away from him is much, much worse.

“You...you didn’t choose it?” Natasha asks, and Steve has no idea what she’s talking about, but Bucky seems to.

“No,” he says. “The things I did…I can’t. Please. Let me die.”

He won’t look at her, won’t look at anyone, his eyes fixed on the airlock.

Natasha lowers her blaster.

“I can’t,” she says. “I’m sorry. I won’t. I know in a way it might be kinder, but...I can’t.”

Bucky turns to her then, eyes lit up in horror.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, but she shakes her head.

“Clint is right,” she says, and Clint looks at her, surprised. “They gave me a chance. I should give you one too. Perhaps, with time...” She turns to the rest of them. “I have a safe house on Rishi where we will be undetectable. We will go there.”

“But –” Tony starts.

“He is not a threat,” Natasha says, in a tone of voice that suggests she expects everyone to agree with her.

“But how –” Tony tries again, but Thor shushes him.

“Nobody who wanted to die that much is a threat to us,” Wanda says quietly, and Natasha nods. “We can read people’s intentions through the Force,” she adds, seeing Tony open his mouth again.

“Is that true?” Tony demands, turning to Steve, and Steve nods weakly, still unable to quite believe that they seem, for now, to have averted something terrible happening to Bucky. _Why won’t you let me in?_ he thinks desperately. _Why do you let her in and not me?_ He knows his feelings are bouncing all over the place; Wanda and Natasha both look uncomfortably at him, and he knows he’s got to get it under control, and he _will_ , he just needs a minute...

“Well then,” Thor says, clapping his hands together and looking remarkably cheerful considering the drama they’ve all just witnessed, “That is settled. Rishi. I’ve never even heard of the place.”

Bruce, who’s been observing the entire exchange in tense silence, also seems to have relaxed, and Clint is still looking stunned that Natasha listened to his advice.

“Tony?” Steve asks, wishing he didn’t sound quite so pleading, but knowing he needs the man’s agreement before he can believe that Bucky’s safe.

Tony sighs.

“All right. All right. If you’re going to play the Force card. I won’t say I like it, but if that’s what you think, then all right. Jarvis? Plot a course for Rishi.”

 _“Very well, Sir,”_ says the ceiling, and Steve sighs in relief, sagging against the wall. Bucky is still standing stock still, looking quite as condemned as he did when it looked like Natasha was going to throw him into deep space. If he can just right himself, go to Bucky, talk to him, he can persuade him, make him remember, make him see… In a minute, once the room stops spinning again and bright colors are no longer flashing in front of his eyes, he just needs a minute...

“Rogers?” Tony says, sounding concerned, but Steve has already hit the floor.

 

* * *

 

The floor is wet under his feet. Crimson and sticky. He feels it in the air, the particles in his mouth, the fear and rank stench of evil.

Bucky’s screaming, and they hold him down, a saw and a thin blade carving just under his shoulder, pulling the pulpy, wet flesh apart. The blood sticks to Steve’s boots, rooting him to the floor, keeping him captive as much as Bucky’s screams do, the tenor of anguish ringing in his ears. Bucky pleads and begs, but it makes no difference. The men cut and pull to the bone. It’s sharply white among the red of Bucky’s flesh, the stump of it almost shining in the low light.

It repeats. Over and over, until Steve feels himself heaving, acid and bile mingling with the sickly iron smell of the blood. His own vomit in the horrible twisted nightmare he’s trapped in.

 _It’s not real. It’s not real_. He tries to tell himself, but it’s all lies. He knows this is real, knows this happened. Can feel the edges of reality bending, time flowing past him, the threads of futures and pasts unknown, the might-have-beens. But this isn’t one of them, this _happened_ , long ago, and it pulls Steve, holds him prisoner, forces him to bear witness to Bucky’s suffering. Over, and over, and over again.

He heaves and chokes on his own bile, acid liquid running down from his mouth. Steve claws himself out, crawls on his belly out of that room, the echoes of Bucky’s screams around him. Blood down his front, sticky, and the smell of it in his nose. He doesn’t want to bear witness, doesn't feel he has the right, crawls past the tiny cell that smells of urine and fear, past the crouched naked shape in the corner. He doesn’t want to see.

 

And into the black room. Not black like an endless night sky, but black like a predator’s mouth, like death coming to collect, with Bucky on his knees, a pale hand in his hair. The silver arm gleams in the dark. A weapon for a weapon.

“Good.”

“Yes, Master.”

Bucky’s mind is empty, like a vacant chalice scooped bare and open. His master fills it, fills him to the brim. Darkness and hate and fear. The hand pets the brown curls of Bucky’s hair, an imitation of gentleness, a macabre tableau of intimacy.

He hands Bucky a blade, but he’s not Bucky anymore, just an empty vessel, a chalice filled with poison.

The blade hisses and spits, crimson and sticky in the air like the blood. It glows and echoes, lighting Bucky’s face, a rictus mask, like death. His master raises his hand, presses a black mask in place, hiding him, unmaking the man he used to be.

 

The ice stretches around him endlessly, cold biting into his skin until he feels nothing at all in this place. Standing in the husk of the ship, black burnt-out arches of the hull rising around him like a cathedral, like a portal to hell.

There are ghosts around him now, echoes of voices. Survivors. They move around him, voiceless and formless, until he’s once again alone. The bodies of the dead left behind for others to find. The others leave, only their dark, shadowy echoes left behind, a tarnish on the surface of the planet, black like the touch of a hand reaching down, a finger of something dark and evil.

He turns and there’s the ghost of a boy, his pale face nearly obscured by the falling snow. Steve knows this boy, knows his newly pressed robes, his fidgeting hands on the hem of his tunic. The boy reaches up, twists his braid into his fist, and yanks. Once. Twice, until the braid comes clean off. The braid that Steve tied, ran his fingers through, tied with a plain little ribbon

.


	5. Untying

 

The mornings are the best time on Rishi, or so Steve thinks. He’s probably the only one. Both Wanda and Natasha settle in the hammocks just under the eaves during the heat of the midday, lazing in the hot weather like they’re somehow recharging. Like those strange fat lizards on Baros, lounging on rock faces and over sand dunes. He could imagine Natasha with a forked tongue, but he decides to keep that particular thought to himself.

He’s not so good in the heat, preferring to hide out in the library, where the cooling vents make the room feel almost at a normal temperature. The whole structure isn’t the most sophisticated of hideouts. The individual huts are built on the water on top of stilts. The main hut holds the kitchen and a shared living space as well as the library. An office for communications is connected to it via a rickety walkway. The landing bay for their ship is hidden in a nearby cove.

The bedrooms are all separate smaller huts connected by a similar walkway in the shape of a crescent. Wanda had screamed with glee when she had discovered the ladder going directly into the azure blue sea from the small balcony in her assigned hut.

Natasha sourced some kind of swimming costumes for everyone from some cubby or another, and Wanda’s spent most of the day floating in the ocean. Steve should have disapproved, or so he thinks, but for the way her mind had quieted for just a little while. That gentle thread of serenity all Jedi strive for floating through the strenuous mental connection they still shared.

That’s why he’s out here today, waiting on the shoreline some distance away from the floating huts. Watching the sliver of the rising sun on the horizon. He’s not wearing any shoes, the only concession he’s made to the elements. Strangely, he doesn’t mind the sand between his toes here. It’s nothing like Baros.

She’s still letting him in, letting him feel the shape of her thoughts, those feelings filtering through, and Steve feels privileged and ashamed in equal measure. He needs to apologize, to explain, but that means talking about Bucky. Bucky, who avoids him more than anyone. Won’t look at him or talk to him. Eating alone in his room. Steve’s caught him at the fridge a few times in the middle of the night, armfuls of fruits and cheeses and bottles of juice, and he’d rushed past like Steve was trying to take away his haul.

He can see her in the distance now, climbing down from the stilts and making her way across the beach. She knows where he is, can feel the summons. No, not summons; a request, a plea to meet. The wind catches her hair, blowing it around her head, snagging her Padawan braid and the red ribbon that holds it.

She’s watching him, cautious, head cocked in a question, and Steve breathes, opens himself up to her, lets his feelings flow between them in a way that a Master never would, not with a Padawan. Lets her feel his shame and supplication. He speaks as soon as she reaches where he’s standing.

“I’m sorry, Wanda. For what I did to you, for that break of trust. Break of everything we Jedi hold sacred.”

She holds herself as if she’s cold, looking out into the ocean. Her thoughts suddenly still and quiet. “It’s not the first time. They used to do it, to keep me in line – in check at the Temple.” There’s a flash of it, the feeling of many minds in one, in her. Then she shakes loose, walks into the wet sand, letting the gentle waves submerge her feet and ankles. There’s disquiet in him, that pull of self-loathing, the realization that he’s no better, no nobler than the others. Those in the Council he scorns. That he’s now like them.

Then she speaks again, maybe sensing his thoughts, feeling the shape of them. “But you weren’t like them, were you? Your reasons weren’t like that.” It’s a statement; she’s giving him a chance to explain, and it’s kinder than he deserves.

“I…no, I didn’t mean to, and I guess that’s worse.” He’s trying to smile, but it falls flat, and he’s surprised to feel amusement radiating from her. “Trust me on this, it really isn’t worse. To do that…to do that and mean it. To want to control and to do harm.”

She turns to him, looking at him with a sort of wisdom Steve has only sometimes seen in the very ancients. “The intent has to matter, I have to believe in that, to live with myself and the things I’ve done.”

He can see her shifting, pressing her feet into the sand under the water. She isn’t looking at him as she speaks. “So please tell me. Tell me why?”

In response, he reaches out to her, walking into the water, offering her his hand.

“How about I show you?”

The ocean is warm around his feet, lapping at his ankles with a rhythm of its own making. Wanda looks at him then, her eyes wide, round and surprised. This is not something a Master ever offers. When their fingers touch, Steve lets himself be transported, pulled back across the years, taking Wanda in his wake. Showing her, guiding her.

 

Colourful marbles scattered across a stone floor.

A catch in his lungs, and a dark-haired boy who always waits for him.

Thick sheets pulled over their heads. Hiding from the dormitory monitors, reading comic books and adventure serials with the aid of a flashlight.

Sleeping, his ear pressed to a steady beating heart. The sound so familiar that it could have been his own.

Deft hands at the back of his head, braiding, tying a simple knot to hold the hair together. A smile, “do mine now!” The feel of soft dark hair between his fingers.

Goodbyes and promises. Friendship that was supposed to last forever.

His empty shattered heart. That yawning chasm in his soul.

 

He knows she feels it too.

“He was always there. The one constant in my life, and then, he was suddenly gone.” Her hands are still in his, so small and fragile if they were not capable of so much power. Her fingers curling around his, letting him feel it, the Force thrumming through them both.

“I understand.”

Steve draws a shuddering breath, something breaking loose in his chest. “And now he’s here, and I…I lost control. I know saying ‘I’m sorry’ is not enough, but I am, so incredibly sorry, Wanda.”

“You love him, it makes us do crazy things. I understand that.” There’s so much forgiveness in her, so much good, and Steve can’t bear it, can’t accept it, not after how perfectly he’s failed. And maybe she feels that too, her smile soft and unguarded. It makes the words easier. “He…he was like a brother to me. Family.”

Wanda looks at him strangely then, head cocked again like he’s being weighed and measured. “Steve. You’re in love with him. It’s plain as day for everyone to see, even to the ordinaries.”

The shock of her statement, the intention she’s implying, makes his pull his hands free, press his shields in place. “What? No, Wanda, that’s not…You know Jedi can’t…I couldn’t.”

She hums, a low sound like she doesn’t really believe him, but agreeing with him nonetheless. “Of course. You’re right after all.” But she doesn’t sound like she thinks he’s right, not at all, and Steve wants to defend himself, to argue, but he would show himself more the fool then.

She leaves him on the beach, a gentle touch of her mind letting him know that he’s forgiven, chiding him to forgive himself too, but Steve isn’t sure if he can yet. He stays on the beach for a good long while, but eventually, the hot late-morning sun drives him back into the huts, into his hiding place in the library.

Wanda’s words stay with him throughout the day. He can’t seem to shake them. They pop into his head when he’s eating, meditating, reading that trashy adventure novel he found in his room. It’s not something he’s ever put a name on, those intangible feelings. There was never any point to it, not after Bucky was gone. He hadn’t wanted to name that ache in his chest, name those dreams he’d equally hoped for and dreaded.

After all, those feelings were for him alone; he didn’t want to examine them, pull them apart for others to see as his Masters would have wanted. But Wanda’s put a name to them now, and he’d denied it to her, but he can’t do that himself, not anymore. Of course, those feelings aren’t something that he’d ever tell Bucky about, not to the man who’s with them now. He’s so skittish, so violated and raw. Steve can sense the turmoil, the rage and the confusion even past the barriers Bucky’s set up. That impenetrable wall between them that Steve has no idea how to breach. It floats between them like a mottled bruise, even more overwhelming than Wanda’s grief had been in the beginning, and Steve has even less of an idea of how to fix this. Whether he should even try.

Bucky’s not there for lunch or dinner. Not that he ever is, but Steve still holds out hope. Everyone else is always ambling through the rooms near enough to the designated eating times. It’s not that they eat together per se. Natasha will graze throughout the day, snatching food as she goes like she’s afraid someone’s going to take it all away soon. Clint seems content enough to just follow in her wake, eating whatever’s there. Bruce and Tony forget most of the time until Thor shouts with his booming voice through the whole semi-circle of huts and reminds them. They’ll both come in and shovel food into their mouths like a set of hibernating animals, then disappear again into the conference rooms. Tony has set up some kind of a science laboratory floating in the cove, with easy access to the ship.

Steve tries to get Wanda to eat with him most days, provide the structure of scheduled meal times. Sometimes he thinks it’s silly, but she doesn’t seem to mind it and her company is soothing. Especially after everything. Sometimes he wonders if it’s her giving his day the structure.

As they eat, Steve feels her forgiveness, starts to accept it, even if he’s still refusing to acknowledge her words. He thinks she knows, the way she looks at him from the corner of her eye over dinner, considering and calm. He wonders if she was right, if the others know too, or suspect. If they can see the way all his senses reach out to Bucky, the way they always slam into the brick wall of Bucky’s mind, his shields keeping Steve out. If they can see his disappointment, his desperate hope, in the way he suspects Wanda can.

He feels restless, unsettled all evening. Not able to read or meditate, walking an endless circle in his room. It thrums under his skin as he gets ready for bed. Brushing his teeth with a mix of dread and anticipation. He pulls the covers from the bed and slides between the cool sheets. Tries to quieten his mind, to meditate again, but he can’t help himself, he never really could, not with this. He’s had the dream before, welcomes it now, the familiar shape of it wrapping around him. Pulling him under like the tide that washes the stilts, the beach.

 

He’s back in rooms in the temple. The private one he had as he got older. After. It was in the corner of the building, looked over the gardens. With a writing desk and a small bed in the corner. He lies there now, naked under the sheets, hears the click of the door and the soft footfalls of someone moving over the flagstones. No, not someone. Him. Steve knows this guest.

The night air is cool around him, with a sweet scent of flowers and the low hum of the cicadas. Steve doesn’t look, he never does, squeezing his eyes closed till he feels a soft hand on his shoulder, trailing down his spine. It’s so gentle, a question of sorts. Then he hears his name, soft and gentle from Bucky’s lips.

He feels Bucky lifting the sheets, sliding into the narrow cot beside him. Skin pressed to skin, as close as they can get. But it’s not like he remembers. Not the way the dream usually is. It’s Bucky as he is now, scars and long hair, and the metal hand feels warm on Steve’s skin. It’s gentle and kind, and Steve shudders under its touch, presses forward into it, wanting, needing, welcoming. Whispering Bucky’s name like a prayer, an invocation.

Those metal fingers find his nipple, flicking and gently pinching. This is new, not something that’s Steve’s ever dreamed of before, and it goes right to his cock, already hard between his legs, aching for touch. Bucky hums, presses his mouth to the now-hard peak, sucking kisses and sharp little nips of his teeth. Steve just spreads his legs, begs for more.

Bucky pushes Steve over onto his belly. This too is new. The way he arranges Steve’s knees under him, nudging them apart. Then Bucky spreads his cheeks and Steve can feel his asshole clenching, the way he’s being looked at. Buries his face in the pillow, hiding his blush. There’s a hot huff of breath and the warm, wet press of Bucky’s tongue over him. Steve yelps into the pillows, hiding his face again, overcome by the strange sensation.

Bucky’s mouth suckles and teases his hole, slick metal fingertip sliding over the furled, tight skin. The finger slides in and Steve feels so full, the cool metal unyielding in him.

Bucky works his fingers in, slowly. One at a time. It’s slick and full, his tongue working around the stretched rim, and the only thing Steve can do is moan. He can hear the rustle of fabric, of Bucky working his pants open. He can’t help but sneak a look over his shoulder. Bucky’s cock is thick and long, a dark patch of hair over his groin, balls nestled tight into the base. Then Bucky’s squeezing at the root, like he trying to stop himself from coming, and Steve has to bury his face back into the pillows from just how hot the image is.

Then Bucky pushes in without a warning, and Steve’s flayed open, nothing but a receptacle, a vessel for Bucky’s cock. He chants _please_ into the air, presses into the hands holding his ass in place. Begging, wanting, needing to be only here, his body only made for this purpose. To be taken by Bucky. He reaches behind him, feeling the soft skin at Bucky’s hip, the still material of his trousers where they’re pulled open. Feels himself, wet and pulled open by Bucky’s cock. He runs his fingers over the stretched skin of his hole and shivers.

 

Steve wakes up gasping for air and coming in his underwear, cock pulsing wetly. He pulls down his shorts, wiping the seed from around his dick with shaking fingers. Tries to clean it from the edge of his hip. He can’t help but touch himself, the dream still fresh in his mind. His cock’s sensitive, slightly painful from his climax, but still almost fully hard. He thinks of Bucky, of the way he squeezed the base, how turned-on he must have been.

He finishes with a grunt and a small pool of spunk into his hand in only a few minutes, the images of the dream playing out in his mind. The feelings slithering over his skin like they were almost real.

It felt different this time, unusual and new. Steve can feel himself flushing in the early-morning light, thinking of all the things they did, all the things his mind conjured up. He tries to push it out of his head as he washes in the small bathroom, press those thoughts far behind his deepest of mental walls as he dresses for the day. These are not the kind of things a Padawan should ever catch a glimpse of from their Master.

Wanda looks harassed, giving him a venomous glare over her fruit bowl as Steve finally makes his way to the main hut for breakfast. He doesn’t pry this time, tries to give her space, show her that he’s able to respect her boundaries. Sometimes dreams are not good for either of them.

Bucky’s there too, surprisingly, nearly hiding in the fridge. Maybe he’s finally starting to come around, or so Steve hopes. He tries to smile, but Bucky just avoids his eyes. It’s more likely that he just ran out of food at the most inopportune moment. Breakfasts are usually quiet anyway, only a few of them present, but this time Natasha and Tony are there too. Clutching their coffee cups like there are secrets of the universe hidden in their depths.

As Steve walks by her, Wanda tenses. When she speaks, her voice is tight and petulant, tinged with tiredness. “You know, if you’re going to be doing whatever you got up to last night, can you please just shield better. I have no need to be privy to anyone’s sex dreams.”

Steve freezes, feels himself flushing, the back of his neck heating up. And then he sees Bucky freezing as well, sees the bright red blush flaming over his cheeks and neck. Their eyes meet for the first time since Bespin. There’s a flash of something, a hot wet heat between them, and Wanda makes a face, like they’re both imbeciles. “Seriously!” She drops her spoon into the bowl with a splat and a piece of mango goes flying across the table. “You’re both _utter morons_!” Then she’s out the room, muttering as she goes, like a fleeing storm cloud.

Bucky’s still frozen by the fridge, his hand on a bottle of juice.

It’s Natasha who finally breaks the silence from by the coffee machine, stretching lazily like a cat. “Oh, I see, it was you two last night. I was wondering where those horn-dog feelings were coming from.”

Clint walks in at that exact moment with a confused “What?” but Natasha just ignores him. There’s a glint in her eye that Steve doesn’t like at all.

“Always thought a Jedi Master would have been able to shield better, really.”

Bucky drops the juice bottle and rushes out of the room. There’s a fleeting moment, a glimpse of something soft and tender as he brushes past Steve, still frozen by the counter.

Natasha laughs, leaning over to him. “Felt hot though, so keep it coming.” She winks, theatrical and over the top as Steve scrambles out of the room. He can hear Tony muttering, ”Jarvis, record everything. We’re selling this shit to PornHub,” as Natasha cackles behind him.

He keeps going until he reaches his own hut. He’s very tempted to throw himself into the water – if not to drown himself, then at least to take the heat off his burning face – but he contents himself with sinking to the ground and holding his head in his hands. He’s never felt so embarrassed in his life. How is he ever going to look Wanda in the face again? And how will he ever stand to be in the same room as Bucky, let alone discuss the feelings he has for him?

Wait. Wanda could feel what he was feeling, but Bucky had actually been _in_ his dream. And it hadn’t been like his other dreams; things had been happening that he hadn’t been controlling. Did that mean that Bucky was…

_“STEVE!”_

Steve’s train of thought is interrupted by a booming shout, which can only be coming from one person. Nobody else has the chest capacity to make sound travel quite like Thor. He looks up to see the man striding towards him, his handsome, bearded face split wide in a radiant grin.

Thor jogs the last few yards and comes to join him, sitting down with a bump that would probably be painful to anyone not possessed of Thor’s exuberance. He’s still grinning.

“I just heard the joyous news,” he announces, “and I immediately wished to offer you my heartiest congratulations!”

Steve is nonplussed. There hasn’t been any joyous news, as far as he can remember, only the humiliating fact that he accidentally invited his Padawan to a private mental sex show and that she ratted him out to the rest of the team. Any abatement to his blush has worn off, and his cheeks flush brighter than ever. He thinks his head might explode. Thor can’t be referring to that, so he waits for him to elaborate.

When he does nothing except grin further, Steve gestures for him to continue.

“There is no need to be coy!” Thor exclaims. “I know it all! I heard it from Stark only moments ago.” He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve’s head shakes with the force of it, so hard that he actually feels dazed.

“I knew, from the moment I found the two of you,” Thor continues, oblivious to Steve’s confusion and embarrassment, “that you were shield-brothers of old! It warms my heart to know that you have found each other again.”

Why does Thor have to talk like he’s a character from an epic poem? And so _loudly_? Steve wriggles out from under his arm and makes frantic shushing gestures, because he’ll never hear the end of this if Tony hears them, but Thor’s in full flow now.

“For the force of your love to have been felt by the others! Such a privilege, such a marker of its strength… Oh, but is it inappropriate of me to use the word ‘Force’ to describe it?” he interrupts himself, looking suddenly anxious. “Forgive me! I am not mindful of the ways of the Jedi. I did not mean to cause offense.”

He looks so worried that Steve can’t even be that exasperated with him.

“No, no,” he says. “It’s fine, you can say ‘Force.’”

Thor looks extremely relieved. “Thank goodness! I am loath to be disrespectful to you, on this day of all days.”

This isn’t really a day of any days. It _might_ be, if he could get some time to himself. He needs to think, he needs to process what it meant that Bucky was in his dream and making things happen, but he can barely concentrate on anything with Thor’s earnest booming in his ear. He needs to get rid of him, but he has no idea how to do that when Thor’s so delighted for him.

“I hope you won’t think I’m bragging, but I had an inkling that this might happen,” Thor says, nodding his head sagely. “When I found you together...there was nothing else it could be.”

That gives Steve pause.

“What do you mean? We were unconscious when you found us.”

“Of course!” Thor says. “I suppose you could say that he is a real knock-out!” He shoves Steve in the side with his elbow to emphasize the joke, beaming at his own cleverness, and Steve’s sure there’ll be a bruise there in a few hours. “But to speak seriously: it was so difficult to separate you, although I did so to spare you the embarrassment of others knowing before you were ready to announce it, for it is none of our business.”

Thor’s talking about this as though he thinks Steve understands what he’s saying, but he’s lost.

“We were...touching?”

“Why, yes!” Thor says, wide-eyed and serious. “It took me many moments to detach you from one another’s grip, once I had retrieved your lightsabers and deactivated them.” He suddenly looks abashed again. “Forgive me, I know it is not for non-Jedi to touch them, but I could not leave them. I knew they would be of great value to you. I took care to handle them with my bare hands as little as possible.”

Steve is touched by Thor’s concern for propriety; it’s rare for non-Jedi to even attempt to be considerate of things like that.

“I can only imagine how terrible it must have been for you to have been separated. I know a little of that pain myself,” Thor says, his eyes growing dark for a moment. Steve can feel a flash of emotion, some complex grief and regret that’s impossible to parse before the smile is back on Thor’s face. “But I did not realize the true nature of it until this morning. Sometimes I am not as perceptive as I like to think.”

He hangs his head, a rueful smile on his face. Steve’s heart gives a pang, because Thor is describing everything Steve has ever wanted, but he’s so far wrong that it would be funny if the humiliation didn’t make him want to curl up and die. He’s going to have to tell him the truth.

“Thor, it’s not quite like that...” he begins.

“Oh, I understand. I know that the Jedi are forbidden to love, and I shall keep your secret! I can be very discrete, when occasion calls!”

“No, I mean…” Steve tries again, but he’s interrupted by Thor saying, “But here comes your beloved!” and waving over his shoulder. “Of course, I ought not to keep you from one another, not when you are so newly coupled. Forgive me. Every moment apart is as an hour to those in love!”

Steve looks up, horrified, to follow the direction of Thor’s wave, and there, indeed, is Bucky, striding along with a face like thunder. But he’s not heading in their direction; quite the opposite, he’s going towards his own hut, which is pointedly far away from Steve’s.

_Please don’t, please don’t_ , Steve thinks frantically, but of course, Thor is shouting “JAMES!” at the top of his voice.

“I did not wish to call him ‘Bucky,’” he explains to Steve in his normal speaking voice, which is still inordinately loud, “as I know that is a name used just between the two of you.”

Bucky halts in his tracks at the sound of Thor’s voice, looking first confused and then angry. There’s a moment, just a moment, when his eyes meet Steve’s, and Steve tries desperately to hold his gaze, to explain, to plead with him, but then Bucky’s expression goes blank, and he turns his head away and continues stomping off.

The fact that Bucky has failed to come sprinting towards Steve, the light of love burning in his eyes, has evidently alerted Thor to the possibility that something is up. He looks from Steve to Bucky’s retreating figure and back again, his brow furrowed.

“Thor…” Steve starts weakly, getting to his feet, with no idea where to begin.

“It is not as straightforward as I would have it, is it?” Thor says quietly.

“Or as I would,” Steve says, though the words cost him.

“Forgive me,” Thor says sombrely, all traces of his excitement from before. “I did not see.”

“Well, you probably believed what Stark said, which is something nobody should do,” Steve says, and he can’t quite keep a hint of bitterness from his voice. “As you can see, he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Thor replaces his hand on Steve’s shoulder, and this time it’s comforting instead of jovial.

“I cannot read the Force the way you can,” he says, “but it seems to me that this may have more to do with his feelings towards himself than his feelings towards you. I know nothing of lovers, but I do know something of those who sometimes cannot bear themselves.” He rises to his feet. “I am sorry for my misunderstanding. I shall leave you now, before I upset you further.”

Steve starts to protest out of politeness, although he dearly wants to be alone, but Thor waves him off.

“It is no matter. Do not give up hope, Steve. It may need nothing more than time.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Steve says, fighting the rising tide of despair at the recollection of the expression on Bucky’s face.

“Perhaps that, too, will need time.”

Steve watches Thor walk away, looks miserably at Bucky’s hut, and then flops down into the sand.

 


	6. Discradling

 

Because Bucky doesn’t want to even acknowledge him, Wanda is still giving him the cold shoulder, Bruce and Thor constantly flash him sympathetic puppy-eyes in an attempt to be comforting that somehow ends up making him feel worse, and Tony, Natasha, and Clint keep smirking at him whenever they see him, Steve ends up spending a lot of time alone.

He tries to keep himself occupied, meditating, trying to center himself, trying to focus on the Force. His shields are still shaky, and in his heart of hearts he knows why; he doesn’t want Bucky not to be able to get into his head at night, even after everything that he saw before.

Although Bucky won’t speak to him, they’re still spending a lot of time together. Every night, in fact, when Steve does manage to sleep. At first, he tried staying awake all night, mortified at the thought of accidentally dragging Bucky back into his fantasies. But all that meant was that he was more vulnerable during the day, and even the Jedi need to sleep. So now he’s hit upon a combination of a few hours of meditation and a few hours of sleep. The meditation helps him to clear his mind of all of the things he’d rather keep to himself, despite the awful temptation to see whether he can make what happened happen again.

When he does find them sharing that connection, he does his best to take it back to more innocent times, to remind Bucky of how things used to be, of how important he is to Steve. Maybe if he can show him enough, it’ll win him over. He’s spending a lot of time thinking about their shared past these days, and he’s found that if he concentrates, he can direct the dream, even narrate it sometimes. Although Bucky never interacts with him, Steve can feel he’s listening.

 

“We were five years old. I was tiny and sick all the time. In sickbay mostly, and then nobody wanted to play with me when I was better. Had to sit by myself all the time.”

 

“Do you remember my bag of marbles? I had so many. And the other kids kept trying to take them. Remember when Hodge tried to steal them? He took them out of my hands, and then you punched him on the nose. I don’t remember ever seeing you before. There were so many of us at the Academy. I think you were in isolation for a week after that.”

 

He’s not sure, but just before he wakes, he thinks he catches a feeling of smugness that’s definitely not his own.

It feels so good, letting himself look at these memories. He’s repressed them for years, pushed away any thought of Bucky. After all this time, they’re still as fresh as if it were yesterday.

 

“I’m doing it! Steve, can you see? I’m doing it!”

“I see it, Bucky!”

Both boys stop to watch the sphere floating, laughing with glee. And then of course it had fallen out of the air and bounced across the ground. They’d watched it roll away, speechless.

 

He can still remember the first time they’d felt the Force flowing between them, and had been able to make it work. What is now as natural to him as breathing had been so new, so exciting.

 

“They won’t let me use a lightsaber yet. Even the training ones.”

“Why not?”

“They said I’m too weak,” Steve sighs, kicking despondently in the dust.

“But size doesn’t matter! That’s what they told us.”

“I know, but Master Strange said…”

“Never mind Master Strange. Come with me.”

“Bucky, no, we’re not supposed to use them without the Masters.”

“What they don’t know isn’t going to hurt them.”

 

Without Bucky’s help, he’d probably never have learned to use a lightsaber, but Bucky had been patient, teaching him to focus, explaining things to him in a way that the Masters could not, or would not. Three weeks later, Steve had been allowed to use his first lightsaber in the practice ring.

He loses track of the days passing on Rishi, gets more tired, less focused. He started off with good intentions, but remembering their history always takes him back to the place where the all the trouble started. Even if he didn’t see it like that back then.

 

“Bucky! What are you doing in here? This is **my** bed!”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“But now **I** can’t sleep!”

“Well, at least we’re together. Move up!”

They shuffle to get comfortable.

“‘Sides, you came into my bed last week.”

“That was an accident.”

“Rogers, Barnes, would you shut up?!”

“Yeah, we’re try’na sleep!”

“Shut up yourself!” Bucky hisses fiercely.

“You and Rogers keep us up, you’ll feel it tomorrow!”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Steve says, and Bucky turns back to Steve.

“Shh. Leave it, Steve, you can’t get into another fight this week.”

His hand reaches up to tangle absently in Steve’s hair, stroking, soothing.

“You sleep better when you’re with me,” he continues in a whisper. “I know you get lonely. I felt it. M’gonna keep you safe, Stevie.”

 

They’d never talked about it outside of the moments before going to sleep, and nobody else in the dormitory had ever mentioned it.

 

Steve wakes up as he’s walking down the corridor, and he knows exactly where he’s going. Moving into separate dormitories hasn’t stopped him from seeking Bucky out at night.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Bucky says quietly, as Steve climbs in beside him. “I can always tell when you’re not asleep. Better make sure we wake up early, though. You know what they said last time.”

“I know,” Steve yawns, settling down into Bucky’s warmth. Steve is always cold at night, but Bucky’s like a furnace. It makes it difficult in the summer, but Steve wouldn’t miss this for the world.

He wakes up before Bucky does, relieved that it’s before dawn and that there’s plenty of time to get back to his own bed before the Masters come to wake them up. During the night, as usual, they’ve moved closer together, and Steve is hard again where his hips are pressed against Bucky’s back. He tries to shuffle away from him without waking Bucky up, despite wanting to push back, feel that sweet, confusing pressure against his swollen dick.

“What?” Bucky mumbles, rolling over, only half-awake.

“Need to go.”

“No, no...just a bit more...please? S’nice like this.”

“I’ve gotta go, Buck,”

He manages to break free, and Bucky makes a disgruntled sound, but rolls back over.

Back in his dormitory, lying on his own bed, the sheets cool against his back, he frantically touches himself, and he makes sure not to say anyone’s name as he comes.

 

He thinks it’s morning. It’s light outside and he’s in the kitchen. Food. He should eat, but he’s not hungry. He just wants to go back, the memories pulling at him like a tide. Someone’s talking.

“Steve? Steve, we haven’t seen you in days. Are you okay?”

“What?”

Natasha is standing next to him. He didn’t even see her come in.

“You’ve been locked in your room by yourself for almost a week.” She sounds worried and Steve tries to smile. It feels more like a grimace.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy. I’m meditating.”

“Is it because of what we said last week?” There’s a kind of caution in her voice that makes Steve feel annoyed. He’s holding a carton of juice and he doesn’t remember picking it up. He puts it down on the table.

“Please, Natasha. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine. Excuse me, I need to go back to my work.”

 

“Rogers. Barnes. You know it’s not acceptable to be in each other’s beds.”

“We’re not doing it on purpose, Master Pym.”

“We fell asleep in our own rooms, promise.”

“If you boys carry on like this, it won’t be enough to have you in separate dormitories. You’ll have to move to separate buildings. This is not appropriate for students of your age.”

 

Then, on some nights, he can’t control the dream.

 

“Master Pierce has done James the great honor of choosing him to be his Padawan.”

 

Steve wakes with a jolt, his hands balled into fists. _Pierce_. He’d disliked the man on sight. Impossibly tall and broad, his voice suave and persuasive. His words were like snakes, twisting and twining around anyone who tried to debate with him. He wouldn’t have liked anyone who wanted to take Bucky away, but there seemed to be something extra terrible about Pierce, though he couldn’t put his finger on what.

 

“No! You can’t let him go! It’s wrong, it’s not fair…”

“Calm yourself, Rogers, you’re getting far too agitated.”

“No! Bucky! **Bucky!** ”

“Rogers, if you don’t come back inside and calm down, you’re going to give yourself an asthma attack.”

 

And then two more long, lonely years at the Academy, during which time he’d shot up about a foot and broadened out in the shoulders so quickly he barely recognised himself, and when he’d tried to push Bucky into the deepest recesses of his mind, building a wall, brick by brick, to keep him safe and locked away even from his instructors and their insistence that Jedi could have no attachments. It had even worked, for a few years, until he’d gone to Baros, away from the scrutiny of other Jedi, and it had all come flooding back.

Like trying to push away a tide of water with only his hands.

He wonders how it can have taken him this long to realize that he was in love with Bucky. How it had taken another person to point it out to him. How he hadn’t been able to see that he’s loved Bucky since he was five years old.

“I love him,” he says out loud, barely a whisper, and he can hardly believe his own daring.

“Well, that’s obvious,” says a voice from outside, and Steve jumps, banging his head hard against the headboard of his bed.

“This is an intervention,” Wanda says, coming into the room and sweeping open the curtains. He blinks against the bright light. “I’m intervening. I haven’t seen you in ten days.”

He’s been in here for ten days?

“Yes, you have, and you look like death.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“No, but your shields have completely gone, and everything you’re dreaming is making the rest of us miserable. Even Tony, who’s about as sensitive as a doorpost.”

“I resent that remark!” he hears, and realizes that Tony, along with possibly several other people, is hovering outside his door.

“You resemble it too!” Wanda yells back, and Steve has a flash of pride at how her confidence has grown in his absence. She’d never have spoken like that before now.

“Come back to us, Steve,” she says, her voice gentler. “We’re going to lose you in here if you don’t. _He’ll_ lose you, and he needs you, even if he won’t say it.”

“Am I forgiven then?” he asks, matching his volume to hers so that Tony, and whoever else is lurking around, can’t overhear them.

“Of course,” she says. “As long as you never do it again. You need to come outside, you need to eat, you need to get your strength back.”

“Why?”

“Partly because you need to actually _talk_ to Bucky, Steve,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But also because I need you too. I’m your Padawan, and I need your help.”

Steve feels a huge pang of guilt at how he’s been neglecting her. He has a responsibility, she’s been let down so many times before, he...

“Don’t bother with that,” Wanda says, shaking her head. “Stop wallowing. Just get up and come outside.”

She steps out of the cabin, not waiting for him to reply, seemingly trusting him to follow. Steve runs a hand over his face, feels his unkempt beard and hair, looks down at his days-old clothes.

“Give me fifteen minutes to clean up!” he calls after her.

“Ten!” she calls back, not even turning around, although Steve can hear the grin in her voice, and he jumps to it.

 

* * *

 

Three days, and several rather large meals later, Steve finds a sheltered cove on the other side of the island. It’s a gentle walk through the trees with a slightly overgrown path, which he enjoys. Wanda seems to like it too, her hands coming out to touch the thick vines and waxy leaves. Reaching out every time a new flower-head has bloomed overnight.

He wants to be a good Master to her, to teach her, show her that the life of a Jedi can be good, rewarding. That the things she experienced at the Temple don’t have to color her life or her choices. He feels more positive too, centered in himself, bolstered strangely by her confidence.

She’s immensely powerful, but still clumsy in her control. So they just play at first, keeping coconuts in the air, getting her to spear them using a lightsaber with her eyes closed. She doesn’t cheat the way Bucky always did, and it makes Steve smile, silent praise flowing from his mind to hers. She absorbs it all like a sponge, starved for it, and Steve has to guard his feelings of disappointment and anger at the Council, at all those other Masters who never truly saw her, never truly tried. Those aren’t things Wanda needs from him now.

He levitates a banana and shoots it towards her head, only to see it cut into neat quarters with a quick flick of her wrist. The blade hums in the air between them. Then she opens her eyes and picks one of the pieces of banana from the air, peeling it and eating it with a smile.

It’s maybe the fifth or the sixth day of their training when he senses someone in the trees, watching. There’s a moment of tension coiling in him, almost preparation for attack, until Steve recognizes the shape and feel of that presence, and forces himself to relax.

Bucky’s leaning against a trunk of a palm tree, nearly hidden in the thicket. Steve calls out to him through the Force, a gentle request to come and join them, but he’s met only with silence. Eventually, he gives up, ignoring their silent watcher and concentrating on Wanda’s form with the blade. Her deft movements and thundering power enough of a distraction even for him. Steve’s happy to notice that she hasn’t picked up on Bucky’s presence yet, and he shields her from it as much as possible.

Wanda levitates a set of wide, green coconuts into the air, flipping and spinning them as she slices their tops off with a clean, precise strike. They wobble in the air, precarious, but stay upright with no spilled liquid on the sand. Steve smiles and claps, cupping his hands under the hovering fruits while Wanda flicks the blade off.

“Good, very good control and focus.” He offers her one of the coconuts and they drink the sweet and tart liquid straight from the rough edges of the holes Wanda’s cut, the exterior still singed and hot from the blade. She smiles and there’s happiness in her thoughts, in the air hovering around her, and it makes Steve smile too.

He feels a sense of surprise through the Force, enough to get him to look up, eyes drawing to the edge of the jungle. Bucky’s still there, crouched down, watching them with unreadable eyes. Wanda seems to sense him too then, and she waves for him to come, hesitantly. She still seems wary of him, but Steve can feel her curiosity. Bucky shoots up from his crouch and disappears into the trees like he was never there, leaving both Steve and Wanda standing in the sand. Steve can sense the disquiet in her, reeling from the apparent rejection.

“Did I do something?”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “Not at all, Wanda.”

There’s a sense memory left behind if Steve reaches out, looks for it, explores the residue of Bucky’s presence. Worry and sorrow and fear, but surprise too, a sense of quiet joy. “I think – I think he was making sure I wasn’t hurting you.”

It happens twice more before Steve goes to seek Bucky out. After Wanda’s agitation starts to show and she drops the third coconut, with the juice running into the sand, Steve knows he has to deal with the situation. He can feel Bucky’s concern, his fear mixed with protectiveness, but Wanda’s not yet deft enough to get through Bucky’s defenses, or maybe she just doesn’t want to push.

Steve’s lost his scruples in that regard over the past several days. At least when it comes to Bucky. So he waits till it’s late, meditating in his hut until he feels Bucky moving on quiet feet to the main hut, to the kitchen. Steve gets up from his mat and follows him.

The light from the open fridge highlights the planes of Bucky’s face, the dip of his cheekbones.

“Bucky.”

Steve doesn’t mean to startle him, but Bucky freezes anyway, arms loaded with food. He presses the door closed, leaving them in the darkness of the kitchen, and takes a step to leave, but Steve blocks his path. Squaring his shoulders. “I just – could you please not hover when we’re training?”

Bucky bows his head, a curtain of hair hiding his face, avoiding Steve’s eyes. Steve rallies ahead, not ready to let the matter drop, but not willing to let Bucky think that he’s unwelcome. “It really freaks her out and she thinks you don’t like her, and I know that’s not true.”

Bucky lifts up his head, a strange look on his face. “Had to be sure.” It’s barely a mutter, but Steve hears it nonetheless.

“What? Sure about what, Bucky?”

Steve can hear the metal arm whirr and click, Bucky’s hand tightening around the mango he’s carrying, the metal fingers sinking into the flesh of the fruit. Bucky doesn’t look at him when he finally answers.

“That you’re not hurting her.”

It makes Steve cringe, look away. Maybe Bucky felt it, in the ship. “I’m – I’m not, I – we talked about it. I made a mistake.”

Bucky looks up at him sharply. “What are you talking about?”

Steve asks “what are you talking about?” at the same time.

Bucky shrugs, and the food mountain in his arms wobbles precariously. “Masters have a lot of power. I wanted to make sure that you weren’t…” he doesn’t finish, just looks away.

“That I wasn’t hurting her.” Steve pauses, the words hanging on his tongue, not sure if they should be said out loud. “The way you were hurt.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything and Steve tries to gentle his tone. “Why don’t you come and join us? It’s a nice way to spend the day.” He tries for lightness, making his voice welcoming. “She’d like to see me knocked down on my ass once in awhile.”

Bucky blanches at the suggestion and looks away again. “There’s nothing of me that’s worth her learning from.”

“I don’t know, Buck.” The old nickname just slips out, Steve can’t help it. “I’m sure she’d love to hear all about her Master as a young skinny thing, running around the temple and getting into trouble.”

“I don’t… I can’t.”

Bucky tries to run then, pushing past Steve, but he grabs his arm. “Bucky, please.”

“Stay away from me.” There’s venom in his eyes, so much hatred, but it’s all directed inwards, his body tense like he’s fighting with himself. “There’s nothing left of the boy you knew. Nothing!” He wrenches himself free of Steve’s grip. “If you’re not going to let me die, just leave me alone.”

Steve stays alone in the dark kitchen for a long while, the words ringing in his ears. Bucky’s fear and self-loathing compressed around, like a hand pressed over his mouth, over his nose, until he can’t breathe.

Eventually, he makes his way back to his hut, tries to lie down. Tries to sleep.

 

Pierce is there, but not like Steve remembers. There’s an edge to him in Bucky’s dream, a darkness and a threat that makes Steve shiver.

Bucky is kneeling in front of him, hands, both metal and flesh, hanging loosely by his sides. Pierce's hand on his head, fingers running over his hair in an imitation of gentleness.

“To build a better world sometimes means having to tear the old one down.”

His voice is grave, and Steve wants to believe him. The sincerity in it pulling him in too.

“You’ve shaped history.”

The fingers grip Bucky’s hair, pulling, but Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch at all.

“I need you to do it one more time.”

And somehow, Steve knows it was always just one more. One more. Endlessly. A cycle of death, and endless, endless hate. He feels like he’s drowning in it, watching Pierce and Bucky. A Master and apprentice. A perversion of that bond.

The crackling lightning from Pierce's hands suffuses the room, the glow of his red, red lightsaber.

Steve tries to turn away, to not see, disbelief and horror warring for space in his head. He can feel it, as soon as Bucky catches onto his emotions, Steve’s disbelief. He’s rocked by the shock and betrayal and fear in Bucky. As if he’s confirmed something, reinforced that no one would believe him. The wall of black suddenly surrounding them, Bucky’s dark, endless hopelessness. He’s crouched down, hiding, diminished like he wants to be nothing. Dead. Jetted into the endless void of space.

Steve reaches out, touches his hand to the blackness, just the tips of his fingers. It’s cold and hot at the same time. Like ice burning his fingers. He’s not thinking much of anything, just wanting to give _something_. To make it better.

Yellow blooms where his fingers have been, a bright and vivid spark in the darkness.

He draws a flower, simple wide petals, almost like what a child would draw.

Then his hands shape endless fields of wheat he’s seen during his travels, the slow flow of them whispering in the breeze, dark bronze and light brown with a low sun hanging in the sky. White whispy clouds on the azure blue of the sky, the black bleeding away from under his fingers.

He feels Bucky behind him shifting, coming closer as he moves along, drawing the shades and curves of the sand dunes of Baros. There was a stark beauty to them. They way they almost glistened in the midday sun. He draws the black lines of a lizard in the shade of a rock, shades his eyes as it watches them lazily.

Bucky’s close now, uncurled from his crouch, hand reaching out to touch the yellow and gold landscapes around them. The tips of the wheat, the way it bristles and breathes. The hot sand and stark blue skies.

He doesn’t say it, but Steve hears it in his mind.

_Thank you._

 

Steve wakes up, jolted but not afraid. Something’s different today.

He’s not alone. There’s a hand resting on his ankle, a hand that’s connected to a body lying curled up on the floor of his room. Curled up in sleep.

Bucky’s on his side, hand reaching out for Steve, fingers tight around the bones of his foot.

Steve reaches out, touches Bucky’s fingers, and for one breathless moment everything is perfect. The rough, calloused knuckles feel warm under Steve’s fingers, Bucky’s fingers safe and solid around his leg. Holding him and not letting go.

Then Bucky jolts awake, pulls away, looking up at Steve with a mixture of fear and shame. The horrors of the dream still lingering in the back of Steve’s mind, the sick realization who, what Pierce had been, still is. How had no one at the Temple seen? How had no one done anything? Those uneasy feelings, his own, young distrust of Pierce suddenly morphing into something else.

Bucky seems to read all of this on Steve’s face.

“No, I – I’m…”

He’s out the door before Steve can respond, before he can reach out and show how wanted Bucky is, how welcome. That Steve believes him now. But he sends those feelings out, catching the fleeting shape of Bucky’s mind, touching it gently. There’s no response, but no pushback either. He rubs his hand over his ankle and can’t help but smile a bit. Getting up to face the day with a bit more optimism than the day before. He hopes it won’t be the only time.

 

* * *

 

For once, the universe grants Steve his wish. He finds Bucky on the floor of his room, on the foot of his bed or half-lying in the armchair in the corner almost every other night.

The dreams come and go too, and Steve gets better at pushing the darkness back. Learning new tricks, his hand becoming sure and steady. Painting beautiful landscapes from his imagination. Overlaying the twisted horrors of Bucky’s nightmares with his own memories of them, of the Academy, of things that Bucky’s mind has twisted and misshapen.

He still never stays in the mornings when Steve finds him on the floor of his room.

Steve can feel the endless chasm of shame, the dark self-loathing rolling off Bucky in waves that he doesn’t know how to stem. He tries to reach out, to touch that dank, cold stream with his fingertips and paint it into something else, something beautiful and fragile, but that’s beyond even Steve’s skills.

But the _thank you_ still lingers between them every morning, unsaid but heard. It’s nice. Well, not the nightmares, but being able to help, and seeing the slow change in Bucky during the day.

He talks to Natasha now, both of them lazing in hammocks in the midday heat under the eaves, hidden from view and from prying ears. Steve has been the recipient of enough mental smacks from Natasha to leave them to it for now. Bucky should have all the friends he can get, no matter how much jealousy burns in Steve’s chest.

Wanda sniggers at him from her own hammock, clearly feeling Natasha’s chiding, and Steve lets her get away with it. Fair’s fair and all. Even if he can’t help but poke the canvas she’s lying on a little bit, sending her swinging with a yelp.

He feels Bucky’s nightmare when he settles down to meditate that evening. A pinprick of pain in his mind. It feels more like a memory this time, a tangible thing, something shaken loose during the day. So Steve seeks him out. Breathes, relaxing and reaching out, letting himself fall into the dream.

 

The hold of the ship is dark and cold. Bucky is pressed between two cargo containers like he too is nothing but cargo.

Steve doesn't know where the toys come from; maybe it’s the way Bucky’s crouched on the floor, hopeless, waiting for the inevitable. The marbles glitter and scatter on the floor as soon as they leave Steve’s fingers, their colors reflecting in the low light, throwing yellows and greens and blues against the shadowy walls. A crystal glittering of light. Steve didn’t even realize he was holding them. He’s been thinking of them, of late.

Bucky looks up suddenly, eyes tracking the light, the colors, calling him out to play the way they always did.

Steve coaxes the colors from each little gem, painting a lush green forest. A field of poppies stretching endlessly into the horizon. A sunrise of myriad hues of yellows and oranges.

Bucky picks up the marbles one by one, weighing them in his hands, rolling the smooth surface against the metal plates, the low clickety-clackety sound of the stones rolling and shifting. There’s a memory attached to that sound, of a gentler, kinder time.

Bucky smiles, looking at Steve through the glass of a marble.

 

Steve wakes up with Bucky’s head pressed into his knee, hands bracketing his legs like he’s trying to hold Steve in place, fingers grazing his hips. It’s closer than they’ve been in years, and it makes Steve’s breath catch.

Bucky still flees, but not as fast, not without a touch of his mind against Steve’s and a quiet _thank you_ again.

Steve can’t help himself for the stupid smile he wears all day. Everyone must notice, but no one says a thing. No one except Wanda, who smiles and says “happiness suits you.”

 

* * *

 

They’ve all settled into a routine of sorts, and Steve is surprised to find that he appreciates the company. Training with Wanda during the day. Sometimes playing cards with Bruce and Thor in the evenings. Listening to Clint’s outlandish tales of his pilot days or his time with the CSF. He’s even getting used to Natasha’s prickly disposition and her acerbic remarks, accepting them with a smile.

Bucky hovers on the edges of the group still, wary of everyone except Natasha now. They sometimes disappear into the jungle for hours at a time, and Steve has to consciously stop himself from following. Sometimes, his feet walk him that way and Wanda will intercept him with one question or another about the philosophical aspects of the Force that leaves them debating for hours.

The days blend into one another, becoming a life of sorts that Steve had never thought he might want. No one talks about the future, about things beyond the little island. Tony makes a throwaway comment about “always wanting to build a hidden lair for science,” but leaves it at that.

On one breezy morning, Steve looks out into the bay that houses their little set of huts. Perplexed by the shapes in the water. He has no idea where the floaties came from; they’re suddenly just there. When he turns to the kitchen, both Clint and Tony look shifty, but for once, Steve decides not to pry. Especially after Wanda comes for breakfast, and screeches, leaping off the dock to claim a yellow one as her own, still wearing most of her clothing.

After much cajoling, Steve braves the ocean with the others. The trunks Natasha sourced for him are fairly well-fitting, even if the bright pink color is offensive to the eye and to his complexion. Besides, the heat is much more bearable in these than in his ever-present Jedi robes.

Tony lets out a lewd whistle when Steve hops down from the pontoon into the sea. The water is warm and inviting; he gives a few experimental strokes and swims over to where Wanda’s lounging on top of her floatie.

He flicks water at her and she blocks it. It’s almost instinctual, the way her hand moves. She seems surprised by her own actions, looking at her own hand while Steve smiles. When he splashes her again, some of the wave hits Tony.

That starts an all-out war that lasts most of the early afternoon. Alliances are forged and betrayed. When Tony demands that both Force users cannot occupy the same side of the conflict, both Wanda and Steve dunk him in the water as a joint effort.

After several hours, Steve drags his floatie to the shore and just flops down onto it with his eyes closed. It’s so pleasant to lie in the sun that he doesn’t realise he’s not alone for a few moments, until he hears something fall softly into the sand and a sigh of “aww, fruit.” He opens his eyes to see Natasha sitting a few feet away from him, completely absorbed in a book, and Clint making his slow way towards them, laden down with a tray piled high with fruit and a jug of something pink and iced-looking. There’s a little trail of fallen fruit in the sand where Clint’s not quite balanced everything properly. He’s clearly torn between going back for the bits he’s dropped and risking losing more of it in the retrieval.

“Natasha!” he calls, having to raise his voice as he’s not yet within comfortable speaking distance.

Natasha turns a page in her book and doesn’t answer.

“ _Natasha_ ,” Clint says, a little desperately, as another fruit rolls off the tray and into the sand. He lifts the tray slightly, attempting to pin the remaining fruit between it and his chin, and the whole thing collapses, the jug overturning and covering him in liquid and ice.

_Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh_ , Steve tells himself, although it’s a struggle, because the sight of Clint, soaked and shocked, is pretty funny. He stands there for a moment, then bends down to retrieve a couple of the fruits and continues towards them.

“I brought you some fruit,” he says, holding it out to her.

“Thank you,” Natasha says, taking them and biting into a ripe-looking peach, her eyes still fixed on her book.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asks, even though he isn’t carrying any drinks anymore.

“No thank you,” she says.

Clint wilts. “Okay.” He pauses for a minute. “Would you like anything else?”

“I think maybe you should go get cleaned up before that stuff dries.”

Clint sighs, nods, and turns dejectedly away.

“He hasn’t quite figured out how much fruit he should put on that tray,” Natasha comments, turning another page and not looking up once she can see Clint’s too far away to hear, although Steve can hear the amusement in her voice. “That’s the third time this week.”

“You don’t want to go and help him?”

“Not when I’m so comfortable.”

Steve watches Clint for a few minutes as he disappears into the distance, feeling momentarily envious of him for being able to show his feelings without fear of breaking any vows.

“Why does he keep doing that?” Natasha says, after a moment, breaking into his brooding. “He doesn’t do it for anyone else.”

Steve blinks. Does she really not know? “Because he likes you, Natasha.”

She snorts at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jedi.”

Somehow she manages to make the title sound insulting, but Steve doesn’t let it deter him. If she actually hasn’t realized, he should probably try again.

“He’s going to worship you for the rest of your life.”

He’s never seen Natasha express this much emotion, a complicated mixture of disgust, confusion, and disbelief. It almost makes him want to laugh.

“It’s not a bad way to live,” he continues, taking advantage of her speechlessness. “Someone who wants to bring you fruit, take care of you, doesn’t care if they look stupid if it makes you smile? I can’t think of much better.” What he wouldn’t give to be able to act like that with Bucky.

“People don’t do that,” Natasha says finally, turning back to her book, making it clear the conversation is over.

Steve just shrugs, not knowing what else he can say, and hoists his floatie over his shoulder to follow the trail of Clint’s footsteps back to the huts.

He’d thought that the end of it. Steve’s never made it his business to intervene in the romantic lives of others around him, but Natasha corners him in the kitchen that evening after everyone else has retired. He’s milling around, hopeful of catching Bucky on one of his midnight raids again.

She’s suddenly there, leaning over the counter and looking at him with a pinched, serious expression.

“I know you’re waiting for him.”

Steve tries to valiantly not to blush, “I’m just – just trying to get a snack.”

She scoffs at him, clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “You’re a terrible liar,” she says, which isn’t entirely untrue. Then she says, “they trained us in the same place, you know.”

It’s such a rapid change of topic, and Steve struggles to keep his expression neutral. Natasha doesn’t seem to mind; her eyes are far away, not really looking at him. Steve knows she’s somewhere else, in the place where Bucky’s nightmares come too.

“I was so afraid of him. We all were. He was brutal, and he was the favorite.”

“Natasha –” he starts, but she doesn’t let him interrupt, holding up her hand. “But I can see things now, how it was for him. How it was the same for him too.” She’s fidgeting, which seems strange on her.

“There wasn’t a lot of kindness there.” Her tone is stilted, almost awkward, which is so out of character Steve is speechless for a moment, trying to find something to say. Maybe reading the shock on his face, Natasha rallies on. “You need to be kind to him.”

“Yeah – yes, of course, I –”

“I don’t think he’s ever been with anyone. His training wasn’t for that. It wasn’t what he was made for.”

The fact that she would know something so intimate about Bucky is so invasive, so horrifying, but then Steve picks up something from her, maybe through the Force, maybe from the tight pull of her mouth.

As soon as he says “– like you,” he wants to take it back, but her shoulders droop in relief, and she nods. Relief that he understands.

“Yes. Like me.” She takes a deep breath and continues. “So, you should be kind.”

He looks at her, trying to let her see the things that he’s worked years to hide. To make her understand that he would never hurt Bucky, would protect him with his life. “I will, I promise.”

She doesn’t say anything, just nods once, decisively, so he turns to go, but stops only a few steps away. He knows he probably shouldn’t meddle but he can’t help himself. There’s a thread there, a white hazy pull of the future, a destiny made.

“Clint, he’s kind, isn’t he?”

She gives him a sharp glare, but he can feel the tug of the string now, pulling him.

“He likes you.”

“Clint’s a puppy dog, he likes everyone.” There’s aggression in her tone, defensiveness, and Steve smiles. “Yes, and he’d be kind to you, Natasha. You deserve that too.”

He turns to go before she can answer, preferring to let her stew. It feels like the right thing to do for now.

He can hear her yelling "if you hurt him, I’ll kill you with a mallet, Jedi or no Jedi!" and it just makes him grin all the more.

The following morning, Steve finds a small bag outside his door. Inside the bag is a small jar. It smells faintly of coconuts when Steve twists it open, and it contains a slippery sort of thick liquid. He reads the small label on the side – ‘Personal Lubricant. Coconut flavor’ – and nearly drops the jar into the ocean.

After blushing and looking around to make sure no one can see him, Steve stashes the jar under his mattress for safekeeping. It’s not like he’d ever use something like that.

 


	7. Miskissing

 

Steve’s been keeping a pretty good lid on things. The dreams have been nice, innocent even. Memories of their childhood, planets he’s visited, and some places that he’d just imagined, made up. But he’d be fooling himself if he thought he could contain his feelings forever.

There’s nothing different about this evening really; maybe he’s happier, humming a little tuneless tune under his breath as he gets ready for bed, rolling himself up in the thin sheet, smiling into the pillow.

 

It starts on Baros. In his little house there, built into a rock face. The kitchen had been small and warm. He never thought he’d miss it, but he does. There had only been one room, with his bed and a chair and a small table.

He’s there now, feeling the cool night air on his skin. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his nipples pebble, sensitive under the breeze. There’s a strange sense of sadness to the room, a curious sort of missing. Baros had been the only home he’d ever chosen for himself.

There’s a cool hand on his shoulder, and then the hot line of a body pressed into his back. Mismatched arms around his waist holding him up. The metal is surprisingly warm. A soft kiss is laid behind his ear.

It’s exactly like he’d imagined on a hundred lonely nights right in this very room. He leans back into it, grateful and needy. Hands coming to rest over the arms around his waist.

Bucky shushes him, murmurs something comforting right by his ear, but Steve can’t make out the words, no matter how hard he tries. A hand sliding over his belly, coming up to cup Steve’s pec, holding it, a thumb gently flicking over his tender nipple. Fingers coming to twist and pull softly. Just until he can’t help but moan at the sensation, the electric pull of Bucky’s hands on him, imagined as they are.

He’s on the bed with his linen pants around his knees, ass up in the air and Bucky’s tongue laving over his hole, before it all clicks into place.

He isn’t alone here.

The way Bucky had manhandled him into the bed, pulled his pants down and spread his cheeks apart. Fingers rough and greedy. There’s intent there, desire and drive. Then Bucky’s mouth is open, hungry and ravenous, like he wants to consume Steve. Tongue and lips and teeth working over Steve’s anus, pressing inside him like he wants to own and taste and feel everything Steve is.

He tries to pant out Bucky’s name in between the desperate little moans, but Bucky doesn’t pay him any mind. Sinking his tongue over and over into Steve’s body, fucking into him with his mouth. Probing tongue and nipping teeth.

Bucky sneaks his hand around Steve’s hips, grasping his cock, and that’s all it takes. Steve’s coming into the sheets, against his own belly, all over Bucky’s fingers.

Bucky’s grunting and humming and then Steve can feel him pressing against the back of his legs.

And Bucky’s pushing inside of him, it’s easy and smooth, slick and full. It feels good. His hands grasping the sheets as Bucky slowly fucks into him.

It gets harder, rougher. Bucky’s panting and grunting, and Steve can only moan into the sheets and take it. The way Bucky feels in him, huge and overwhelming, like he’s only here to take Bucky’s cock, it’s what he’s made for, the only thing that matters at all.

Bucky moans, low and hard like he can hear Steve’s thoughts, like he can read them from the air, and maybe he can.

“Please,” Steve pants, “Bucky, please.”

Bucky thrusts deep and hard, losing his rhythm as he comes, buried deep in Steve’s ass. He lies over Steve’s back, his breath hot on the back of his neck, lips grazing the skin, pressing words Steve can’t make out into his flesh.

 

Steve wakes up with a jolt. Dick heavy and fat between his legs, thrumming with need. He wants to reach down and ease the ache there, but once again, he’s not alone.

Bucky’s wrapped around him, face pressed into Steve’s belly, still kneeling on the floor. His fingers flex over Steve’s back, the metal fingertips pressing along Steve’s spine, as he jerks awake, only moments after Steve’s opened his eyes. It’s just enough time for Steve to see the slow dawning of horror and distress all over Bucky’s face.

Bucky rips himself away from the bed, away from Steve, and Steve tries to reach out for him, “Bucky – wait, please –,” but he’s already out of the door.

The lust and shame swirl in Steve’s belly, and he rubs his fingers over his face. Trying to dispel the images of the dream, with very little success.

He can’t leave it there, he has to apologize, to try and explain. He pulls on his pants and goes out into the night to look for Bucky.

He isn’t hard to find, as much as he’s radiating a clear message of _leave me the hell alone_. Steve was never any good at listening to that kind of order.

He raps his knuckles against Bucky’s door, trying to project submission, his apology against the iron walls of Bucky’s will that’s keeping him out of both the hut and Bucky’s mind.

“Go away, Steve!”

“Bucky, please – let me explain, I need to –”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” He sounds near-on hysterical, and Steve’s not far behind, his eyes prickling, but he resolutely refuses to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Bucky, please.” He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for anymore. Aimlessly leaning against Bucky’s mental walls, trying to be gentle.

The door opens so suddenly Steve nearly falls into the room.

“What the hell are you apologizing for?” Bucky sounds angry then, his face like thunder in the low light of the doorway.

“For the dream, Bucky, please, let me explain–”

“There’s nothing to explain. I’m not going to let the darkness in me taint you too. I am _not_.” Bucky’s breathing hard, his nostrils flared, and Steve can feel the acrid anger and that thick haze of shame swirling around him. But it’s all directed inwards, towards Bucky himself.

“Bucky –”

He reaches out, and Bucky flinches, but Steve doesn’t stop. Lets his hand rest on Bucky’s arm. He’s hot under the thin fabric of his shirt. The linen damp between their skins. That connection calms him enough, enough to finally pull in a lungful of air. Then he opens himself up, lets Bucky feel his desire, those thoughts he’d become so good at hiding, pressing away into the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind. He feels as much as hears Bucky’s intake of breath; it’s almost a sob.

“No, Steve, no – I’ve tainted you, twisted you into this–”

For the first time, Steve feels the hot burn of anger in himself, opening his eyes and looking at Bucky’s anguished face.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare take this away from me, not you too. I hid it, tried to make it go away, all this time.”

“Steve, please –”

“I’ve loved you my whole life, I’ve loved you even before I knew what love was. You were it for me, Buck, you are it for me.”

He can’t believe he’s said it out loud, to Bucky. Who’s staring at him with wide eyes and mouth agape.

“I know you’ve seen into my dreams a couple of times, and I’m sorry for that, I never meant to push that on you. _Ever_.” Bucky looks like he’s about to speak, but Steve has to get this out. Need to say his piece. “I have no expectations of you, none, Buck. I would like to be your friend again, if you’ll let me. I’ll never mention this again, I promise you –”

Before he can finish the sentence, Bucky lunges across the distance between them and kisses him.

It’s not the way Steve imagined it, not really. He’s too surprised, too taken off-guard to even respond, and then Bucky’s pulling away, his eyes wide and scared, and Steve chases him. Hates himself for letting Bucky think, even for a second, that he’s unwanted.

The next kiss is easier, a gentle press of lips, both of them unsure at first. Then Bucky opens his mouth and their lips align and oh it’s suddenly perfect. The taste of Bucky, the shy flick of his tongue over Steve’s lower lip. The shocked inhale when Steve sucks his lower lip in between his own in return.

They lean into the doorframe and into each other, kissing slowly, reverently, disregarding their shared inexperience, the few clashed teeth and missed lips.

 

* * *

 

They don’t sleep together, both suddenly shy after only those few lingering kisses, staying in their own huts that night, but the others seem to sense the change the next morning anyway. Wanda trying to hide her smile in her fruit bowl. Tony and Bruce shove and poke each other, which they clearly think is covert, but in reality isn’t at all. Thor just beams at him, genuinely happy, and it touches Steve in a way he hadn’t expected.

Natasha plops herself into the seat next to Steve, a gleam in her eye that’s never a sign of anything good.

“Well, glad to see that my gift came in handy.”

Steve’s face flames crimson when Bucky asks “What gift?” He’s at least slightly distracted by the eggs Bruce is cooking on the stovetop. Natasha drawls out a “Well –” while Steve tries desperately to shush her.

“Nothing. She just left some, ah, fruit outside my door.”

Bucky looks up at her with a frown. “Why would you give him fruit?”

“It wasn’t –”

“Because Clint gives her fruit! It’s romantic!”

He can see Natasha’s face freezing, her eyes narrowing and her grip on her spoon tightening until her knuckles go nearly white.

“Rogers –”

“Fruit is a nice gift to give someone!”

Natasha harrumphs, but doesn’t pursue it further, which is most likely due to Clint walking in still half-asleep, scratching his belly absentmindedly.

“What’s for breakfast? Why are you all looking at me like that? What?!”

Wanda giggles, which breaks the tension, and Steve smiles at her; sometimes he forgets how young she really is. He reaches for the cereal on the table and starts on his own breakfast, keeping an eye on Bucky, who’s migrated next to Bruce, overseeing the preparation of the eggs.

Clint makes a large smoothie and divides it equally into two glasses. He’s resolutely not looking at the table. Steve doesn’t say anything when Clint places the second glass next to Natasha’s elbow, but he does give her a pointed look when he catches her eye. She frowns at him and then down at the smoothie, like the secrets of the universe are hidden there.

He and Bucky orbit around each other the whole day, their minds brushing past each other, slow lingering touches, but Steve’s too shy to approach him now that everyone knows. He feels like they’re all watching. Sometimes, he thinks Bucky’s shy too, they way he sometimes ducks and hides under his shields.

In the evening, Steve feels the touch of Bucky’s mind like an invitation as he’s getting ready for bed. He’s still in his own hut, all the way on the other side of the walkway. Steve reaches out for him, open and inviting as he lays down on his bed.

 

He’s back on Baros. The familiar shape of the dream is around him, and Steve smiles. Turns around and sees Bucky by the door. He’s wearing a pair of simple pants and a linen shirt. Not so different to the things he’s started to wear around the island. Steve thinks it’s a good sign that he's feeling more comfortable.

There’s a cup of tea in Bucky’s hand, something to warm his hands with in the cold night of the desert. Like he lives there. With Steve. Like this is their home.

He can’t help but smile, beckoning Bucky closer and pull him against his side. It’s a rare cloudless night, and they stand by the window looking up at the constellations, the turn of the stars above them.

Bucky finishes his drink, puts down his mug and presses his warm lips against the side of Steve’s neck. It’s comfortable, familiar, like it’s happened a thousand times on a thousand different nights. Like this isn’t anything extraordinary.

He takes Steve’s hand and leads him to bed. To _their_ bed. Pulling Steve next to him onto the cool sheets, running his fingers, both metal and flesh, over Steve’s sides.

Steve presses his nose into the hollow of Bucky’s throat, feeling small and sheltered and, for the first time, not resenting the sensation. He hated it before, being small and weak. _After_. After Bucky was gone he had hated himself, berated his own foolishness, for not taking every and every opportunity to be close when he’d had the chance.

So he presses closer now. “ _I love you_ ,” he whispers into that hidden little space between them, feels Bucky huff and tightens his hold in return. Bucky doesn’t have to say it back, not yet, not when he’s not ready, but Steve feels it in the air around them. The feelings that Bucky’s struggling to put into words. The way his hands run over Steve’s body, over the fabric of his shirt, sneaking under to feel his hot flushed skin.

Bucky rolls him under his body, pulling Steve’s pants off and throwing them somewhere on the floor. The linen of Bucky’s shirt feels rough against the insides of his thighs, the way he’s wedged himself between Steve’s legs, pulling them up and wide.

Bucky’s belly slides over his exposed cock as he moves and Steve whines, arching up into the contact. He wants more, more contact, more of Bucky, who hums and whispers against his chest.

“Yeah, Steve, just like that. Let me hear you, sweetheart.”

His fingers slide and press down the back of Steve’s thighs. Fingertips walking into the valley of Steve’s ass, spreading him open, letting Bucky’s hips press right against him.

Bucky’s fingers are slick when they find his hole, calloused and wonderful when they press inside of him. Steve arches and moans and tries to spread his legs wider, pull his knees higher.

Bucky’s shoving down his pants, his cock hard and leaking against his belly; Steve can see it between them, wanting to feel it inside of him. Bucky groans, maybe sensing the thought, the desire in the air. He takes hold of his cock and presses the flushed head against Steve’s hole, rubbing against the sensitive whorl.

Then Bucky slides into him, all the way to the hilt, his hips pressing against Steve’s ass. It’s perfect, the way Bucky’s over him, covering him, his elbows bracketing Steve’s head, just so that he can reach down and kiss. So that they’re connected everywhere, Bucky’s cock in him and his tongue in Bucky’s mouth, tasting him.

Steve’s hands ruck the linen of Bucky’s shirt, pulling on the fabric, encouraging him to move.

“Bucky, please.”

He doesn’t really know what he’s asking for, just _more_ , more of Bucky, of this feeling of fullness and completion. Then Bucky moves, rocking into him, pressing Steve’s knees to his chest just so he can get an inch closer, an inch deeper. Steve cries out, clutching the back of Bucky’s shirt, so full and stretched out. His toes curling in the air.

Bucky sets up an easy rhythm. It’s gentle and familiar, like steps to a dance he’d learned long ago, like sparring, the hissing and sparking of their lightsabers when they used to play.

Steve only knows how to beg, his cock hard and leaking between their bellies, rubbing against the linen. He’s wet and flushed and dripping. Begging, and then Bucky slides a hand between them, the left one. Cool fingers wrap around Steve’s cock, and he’s so gentle, so kind, the way he touches Steve, kisses over his chin and cheeks and forehead. Calls him “ _sweetheart_.”

Steve comes before he can help himself, clenching around Bucky’s cock and spurting between their bellies, all over Bucky’s fingers. Bucky brings them to his lips, licking Steve’s come, still slowly fucking into his body, not once losing that sweet, gentle rhythm.

Steve pulls him down into a kiss, wanting to taste himself on Bucky’s tongue, wanting to swallow those quiet little sounds he makes as he chases his own pleasure now.

It takes a little while, slow and steady, for Bucky to come. His body suddenly stilling, back arching like a bow, short stuttering thrusts, and Steve feels it in his core. Bucky inside of him, everything in its rightful place.

They fall asleep wrapped around each other, sheets and blankets pulled over their bodies, sheltering them from the cool air. Almost a mirroring of the way they used to hide from the Masters, long long time ago, just their own little world.

 

* * *

 

“So, um.”

Steve jumps. He’s been lying on his bed, replaying aspects of their shared dream over and over again, unwilling to move or do anything that might interfere with the memory. He looks up to see Bucky standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking shy, as if he’s not sure of his own welcome.

They haven’t done anything in the real world other than share those few kisses a couple of days ago, but the sight of Bucky standing there, after everything they’ve done in their dreams, makes all of Steve’s blood rush straight to his dick. Even lying down, it makes him feel dizzy.

Bucky holds Steve’s gaze, and for a moment, they just stare at each other, Steve on the bed, Bucky frozen in the doorway, until Steve clears his throat and croaks, “Do you want to…?” and Bucky says, “ _yes_ ” before he’s even halfway done, and then Bucky’s crossed the hut and joined him on the bed, landing heavily on top of Steve and squashing the breath from his lungs.

Steve gives a wheezy gasp, and Bucky immediately pulls back, rolling over so that Steve’s on top. Steve props himself up so that he can look down at him, take in his perfect face, his stormy eyes, his full lips.

As he does so, he catches a chunk of Bucky’s hair beneath his elbow, and Bucky yelps in pain.

“Sorry!”

Steve hurriedly moves, freeing Bucky, and sits back up on his heels. Bucky shuffles up the bed, rubbing the side of his head.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“‘S’ok,” Bucky says. “Really. Can...can I kiss you?”

Instead of answering in words, Steve leans forward so he can reach him. The angle isn’t right; their noses bump, their teeth clash, and Steve feels it reverberate through his skull. It’s unpleasant, like his brain is rattling around his head. He keeps still, lets Bucky come to him. This time is better. Bucky’s lips brush across his, and Steve opens his mouth to Bucky’s tongue. He doesn’t trust himself to move his hands, so he just kisses. It’s so inconvenient to breathe, the sound of his own lungs thundering in his ears, only drowned out by the thudding of his heart, so loud it’s like it’ll burst out of his chest. He’s hyperaware of his body, his skin feeling so sensitive, his hands sweating by his sides as he tries to let go and just feel, not listen to his own thoughts, which are trying to distract him from the sweetness of having Bucky so close to him, of being joined at the mouth.

Bucky pulls back from him and they both take a long, shaky breath in.

“You’re so…” Steve starts, but Bucky talks over him, saying “Wanna fuck?”

They both stare at each other, the word seeming to echo around the room. Bucky’s blushing bright red, looking totally mortified.

After a moment, because things seem to have ground to a halt, Steve says, “Um, yes?”

“Okay, good.”

Another pause, while Bucky seems to be thinking about what to do next.

“Do you want me? I mean, to do me? Like, in me?”

“That way? Not how...how we did before?”

“I want...I mean, yes? Do you want...? Like that? Would it be better?”

Bucky looks uncertain again, his hands twisting anxiously in his lap. Steve’s never thought about it the other way before; all his thoughts since they last shared a dream have been on the feeling of opening himself to Bucky, letting Bucky take him, that delicious fullness inside him. But his dick twitches enthusiastically at the thought of being the one to be inside, of feeling Bucky around him, hot and slick and tight. He whimpers as he thinks about it.

“No, I want it your way. What you said. Yes.”

“Okay.”

He leans forward to kiss Bucky again, and it gets better the more they do it. Bucky’s front teeth close on his bottom lip, sharp, unexpected, and he gives another little whimper, the edge of pain just too fierce to be enjoyable. He pulls back, tasting copper; Bucky’s teeth have pierced the skin, splitting his lip open.

“Shit, Steve, I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay, Buck.”

“No, no, it’s not.” Bucky looks wretched, miserable. “I told you, I’m no good, I’m just hurting you.”

“No!” Steve shakes his head furiously. “Bucky, you’re good. I know you are. It was just a mistake. Maybe...let’s leave the kissing for a bit and just do...do the rest?”

Gingerly, Bucky leans forward to plant a kiss on Steve’s cheek in apology, and Steve leans into it. This, at least, is difficult to screw up.

“So, the rest?” Bucky asks, pulling back. “How...what…? Do you have something we can use?”

He’s crimson again, and Steve realizes what he’s asking. He thinks back to Natasha’s gift, still under his mattress, and wrinkles his nose.

“Do we have to?”

“I think so. Otherwise it’ll hurt.”

How Bucky knows this, Steve has no idea. He’d figured it was a joke, more like something obscene you’d find in a pleasure bar out in Zeltros than anything he’d ever need in his own lovemaking, but if Bucky wants it, Steve can hardly deny him.

“Okay.”

He reaches under the mattress and digs out the jar, unscrewing the lid. The smell of coconuts fills the air, and Steve wonders whether he’ll ever be able to use them to train Wanda again. He dips a finger into the jar and scoops a little out, coating his fingertip.

“How do you…?” he asks, and Bucky cocks his head to the side, thinking.

“I think I saw…” he starts, and then he seems to decide something, nodding to himself. “Yeah. Like this.” He shuffles down the bed, spreading his legs wide and tilting his hips up. Then he looks expectantly at Steve, who has noticed a flaw in the plan.

“Don’t we need to be naked first?” he points out, and Bucky flushes again.

“Such an idiot,” he mumbles, and Steve bends down to kiss the tip of his nose.

“No you’re not,” he says. “We’re both new to this. Aren’t we?” he asks, struck suddenly by the thought that he doesn’t actually _know_ what Bucky has experienced in the long time they’ve been apart. Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Yes, jerk, we are. Didn’t exactly have much opportunity while I was being a minion of evil.”

“And there I was thinking you were saving yourself for me,” Steve bats back, not wanting Bucky to dwell on what he’s just said and spiral back into self-loathing.

Bucky’s sarcastic expression turns soft, and he leans up to nuzzle his face against Steve’s.

“I could have been allowed to form all the attachments in the world, sweetheart, and you would still have been the only one I wanted.”

“So, can I help you get naked?” Steve asks, and then cringes immediately after the words have left his mouth. Why is he so much better at this in his head? But Bucky nods eagerly, and together they attack the knots keeping Bucky’s robes together. It’s so warm here that he’s foregone the many layers he was wearing when they found him, but it still takes several moments to undo them all, mostly because Steve’s getting grease everywhere and both of them have sweaty, trembling hands. Finally, Bucky’s robes are off and he’s wriggling out of his pants and throwing them to the floor. Steve, who didn’t bother getting dressed properly this morning after his dream, pulls his t-shirt over his head and wrenches down his underwear, pitching it to join Bucky’s on the floor. Then he looks down at Bucky.

His body is lean, scarred, slightly twisted due to the weight of his metal arm, not exactly how it looked in his dreams, but it’s still the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. Bucky’s skin is pale, his chest smooth and hairless, leading down to a slightly concave belly, prominent hips, and a nest of dark curls where his cock, big and hard and lovely, is clearly visible. Steve swallows.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice hushed, and means it.

“No…” Bucky starts, but Steve shushes him.

“You’re beautiful to me,” he insists, and Bucky flushes again, this time with embarrassed pleasure.

“You too,” he says, gesturing to Steve’s chest. “Pretty different from the last time I saw you, though. What happened to the little guy I used to know?”

“I joined the Jedi,” Steve says, shrugging, and Bucky laughs, a bright, quiet sound that makes Steve’s heart feel too big for his chest. It’s so good to see Bucky laughing.

“Well, show me what you got, Jedi,” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow, with a shadow of his old cockiness, and it’s Steve’s turn to laugh.

“Okay, okay,” Steve says, and then he realizes that he’s lost the lubricant he had on his finger, so he has to scramble around for the jar again, ducking down to the floor. Once he comes back up, he needs a moment to get used to the sight of Bucky naked again, and then Bucky spreads his legs a little wider, head tilted in a question.

“Impatient,” Steve chides him teasingly, but he’s really stalling himself, unsure of what to do next. He settles down between Bucky’s legs and just looks at him for a moment, taking in the sight of him here, the musky scent of his skin. He’s never been naked with another person, and he could spend forever just getting used to the feeling of it.

“Fingers first, right?” he asks, because Bucky seems to know this, and Bucky says, “yeah,” his voice barely more than a whisper. He tilts his hips, and Steve reaches up with one hand to spread his cheeks a little.

Bucky’s hole is pink and clean and very, very small. Steve strokes over it with the tip of his finger, and Bucky shudders.

“You all right?” Steve asks him, and Bucky nods, making a pleased humming sound. “You have to tell me if I hurt you, okay?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, so Steve figures he’s okay to carry on. He strokes Bucky’s hole again, trying to get him to relax enough that he can actually get his finger into him. He’s so tight, Steve isn’t sure it’ll ever fit, but he keeps going. When he does eventually dare to push his finger in, Bucky hisses, and Steve yanks it back in a panic, which makes him cry out.

“Ah!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay. Just, maybe...a little more? Of the lube?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m okay, Steve, it was just a shock.”

Feeling doubtful, Steve reaches down for the jar again and recoats his finger, then starts stroking over Bucky once more. This time, he goes more slowly, trying to force himself to be patient. After longer than he would have ever thought possible, Bucky opens up enough that Steve can get his finger in, and this time he doesn’t wince or hiss. Bucky’s insides are hot and smooth, clenching around Steve’s finger as he works the muscle. When he grazes over a particular spot, Bucky whines and jerks involuntarily, which worries him for a moment, until he moans “ _Steve_ ,” and then he does his best to find that spot as often as possible, until Bucky’s panting, sweating, sighing with pleasure.

“I think...I think I’m ready,” he says, his voice shaking. “If...if we don’t do it soon, I’m going to come, Steve, and I want to...with you, you know?”

“Are you sure?”

Bucky nods, so Steve gently slides his finger out of Bucky, taking care to go slowly, unlike the previous time. He sits back up for a moment to work out what to do next.

“Maybe you need to put some on you, as well? The lube?” Bucky suggests.

“Really?”

“I think it would help.”

Steve reaches for the jar one more time, but Bucky sits up and takes hold of his wrist.

“Can I?”

Steve nods enthusiastically, so Bucky scoops up a generous amount of lube and plasters it all over Steve’s dick until it’s dripping. It’s so slippery he can’t get a good grip on it, like a bar of soap in a shower.

“Are you sure that’s enough?” Steve asks drily, and Bucky manages to squeeze him just a shade too hard. “Okay, okay! Sorry.”

He’d almost forgotten his own dick, with all the attention he was paying to Bucky. It feels so good, Bucky touching him like this, he’s a little worried he might go off too soon. He can’t spoil their first time; it has to be special, something they’ll always remember.

“C’mon, Bucky, let’s go...let me, please?”

Bucky shuffles back down to his original position, legs spread, and Steve tries to line himself up as best he can. It’s difficult; Bucky’s legs are so long, and they get in the way however Steve tries to maneuver himself. He settles on hooking them over his shoulders, which has the welcome effect of lifting Bucky’s hips, but his dick is so slippery with all the lubricant Bucky used that it slides everywhere and he can’t get anywhere near Bucky’s hole. After five or six tries, he appeals to Bucky for help.

“Could you maybe...just hold yourself?”

Bucky does, reaching down, and it helps, a bit, but he’s still far too slippery to have any control. Frustrated, he reaches down to wipe the majority of the lubricant off himself, drying his hand on the sheets. Better, although now the whole room smells of coconuts. With Bucky’s help, he lines the tip of his dick up, and then plunges forward in one long movement.

“Oh, Bucky…” he moans, “Oh, my...I love you so much, I love…” and then he’s coming, unable to stop himself, just as Bucky yelps, “Steve, wait, slow down, I…owwwwww.”

They lie frozen for a moment, staring at each other in horror, Bucky’s forehead furrowed in obvious pain. Steve is mortified, both at coming so soon and at having hurt Bucky.

Bucky winces. “Can you...come out? But slowly? I don’t think I can like this, I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to try again? More lube? More slowly?”

“No,” Bucky says, with feeling, and then he cringes. “I’m sorry. I just...I didn’t expect it to hurt so much. Maybe we needed to take more time? Next time? I don’t think I can again now.”

Somewhere, in the deep fog of his humiliation, Steve feels deeply grateful that Bucky wants them to have a next time.

He eases himself free of Bucky’s tight heat, trying to go as slowly as possible. Bucky takes a deep breath in through his nose as Steve inches out of him, and when he’s completely out, Bucky sighs in relief.

“Well, there’s no blood at least,” he says in a matter-of-fact voice after inspecting Steve’s dick, and Steve squeaks “blood?!” in horror, having not even considered that a possibility. How can Bucky ever have let him do this if there was a chance that he would hurt him? His shock must show on his face, because Bucky laughs gently and sits up to kiss his forehead.

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“But I _hurt_ –”

“Yeah, you did, but it’s okay. You didn’t mean to. Not like...not like when I hurt you.”

Steve recognizes a shade of Bucky’s self-loathing from before, and he has to head it off. He can’t let the day be a complete disaster.

“That was different,” he says quietly. “And I know you’d never want to hurt me now, and I’d never want to hurt you.”

Bucky still looks uncertain, so Steve presses forward, desperate to offer him something, and, if he’s honest, to soothe himself too.

“Let me make it up to you? Not...not that, but I could. Um. Kiss you?”

“Steve, you don’t have to…”

“I know I don’t _have_ to. I want to. But we can stop anytime you want. I mean it, okay? Anything you don’t want.”

Bucky hums, so Steve takes that as an indication that he can continue. He nuzzles his face into Bucky’s neck, kissing him there, and Bucky sighs and relaxes back. Steve’s gentle, not using his teeth or his tongue, just brushing his lips everywhere he can reach across Bucky’s collarbones, his shoulders, his chest. He breathes in deeply, surrounding himself with the scent of him. Nothing has ever smelled so good to him as Bucky’s skin.

He keeps kissing, moving his lips down over Bucky’s ribcage, ghosting them over his stomach. He makes his way down, slow, slow, slow, giving Bucky plenty of time to say if he doesn’t want to be touched anywhere. But Bucky is calm, his breathing steady,

They’ve never done it in any of their shared dreams, but suddenly Steve wants to.

“Is it okay if I...if I suck you?” he asks, barely able to get the words out. He’s not sure whether he’ll want this, but he gets his answer when he looks up and sees that Bucky’s eyes have gone dark with desire and his cheeks are flushed.

“I trust you, Steve,” he says, and he must be able to sense Steve’s distress. He sinks down to the bed again, eyelids lowered, desire all over his face, and Steve follows, his lips pulled like magnets, trailing down Bucky’s stomach.

Bucky’s dick is only slightly hard, not surprising given the pain he was recently in, and Steve noses around it, kissing all over the dip of Bucky’s hips and thighs. He traces patterns with his tongue, taking his time, enjoying the hitch in Bucky’s breathing whenever he makes contact with his cock. He can feel him hardening against his cheek, his hips rolling restlessly against the bed. Steve reaches up to bracket Bucky’s hips with his hands, holding him gently in place, which makes Bucky squirm more.

Finally, when he’s sure Bucky is ready, Steve raises his head and suckles the head of Bucky’s cock into his mouth.

It’s big, and it feels even bigger now that he’s got his lips around it. He has to swirl his tongue around to make it more comfortable, and Bucky moans as he does it, apparently enjoying the pressure. He keeps gently sucking on him, focusing on the tip, not wanting to risk taking the whole thing in case he chokes; the thought of how Tony or Natasha would react to _that_ cause of death is a strong enough deterrent. Bucky’s making so much noise as he sucks him, more than enough to drown out the sounds of his own mouth, that it’ll be bad enough to have to explain _that_ to anyone who can hear them.

Bucky gasps “Steve!” and shudders, and suddenly his mouth is filling with hot, salty come. It’s an odd taste; not bad, exactly, but weird, unlike anything he’s ever tasted before. Steve struggles to swallow it all and gags slightly, but fortunately manages to avoid a full-on coughing fit.

“Am I forgiven?” he asks, once he’s got his throat under control again.

“Nothing to forgive,” Bucky assures him, his voice sounding dreamy, eyes closed. He must have really enjoyed it. There’s a pause while Steve looks fondly at him, and then Bucky says, “get up here, punk.”

Steve goes eagerly, resting his head on Bucky’s chest. Bucky wraps his arms around him and combs his fingers through his hair, which makes Steve purr before he can stop himself. With his head like this, he can hear Bucky’s heart beating, strong, steady, sure.

“Get the feeling we might be better at this when we’re not in the same room?”

Steve laughs ruefully. “Maybe.”

“I guess we don’t really know what we’re doing,” Bucky muses. “Everything’s always better in dreams.”

“They didn’t exactly teach us how to do this at the Academy,” Steve agrees. He reaches out cautiously with his mind, and finds Bucky’s there, open, welcoming. It’s like stepping into the warm sea, and Steve loses himself in it, floating, surrounded by Bucky’s affection and deep feeling of satisfaction.

“Can you imagine if they had?” Bucky asks. “Master Pym at the front of a classroom with dia-diagrams?” He has to pause halfway through the word for a tremendous yawn, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the day.

Steve imagines their stern tutor blandly explaining how to get someone off, and the image is so ridiculous that he can’t help sniggering.

“I guess we’ll have to trust the Force on this one,” he intones, imitating Pym’s droning voice, and Bucky laughs.

“Or get more practice?” he suggests, raising an eyebrow. “Not now, though,” he clarifies hastily, when Steve opens his mouth to reply. “Sleep now.”

“Sleep? Now?”

Steve is surprised; firstly, they’ve haven’t consciously shared a bed since this started, and secondly, it’s the middle of the day. But they’re old pros at bedsharing, and Bucky is snuggling him close, saying “mmmhmm,” before another massive yawn, making it clear the conversation is over. Steve can’t bring himself to disturb him, and he’s keen not to dwell on how embarrassing the past hour of their lives has been, so he reaches down to the bottom of the bed and pulls the blankets up over them both. Even though it’s warm, he likes being covered up with Bucky, like they’re safe in their own cocoon.

He’d stay there forever if he could.

“Love you,” Bucky murmurs into Steve’s hair. “Always have, always will.”

“I love you too, Buck,” Steve answers, and then he eases into a restful sleep.

 

* * *

 

They wake hours later, sweaty, sticky, and slightly cramped. This was much easier when they were both smaller. During their sleep, they’ve moved to face each other in bed, Steve’s arm resting loosely on Bucky’s hip. Bucky’s hair is sticking up in all directions, which makes Steve want to ruffle it, but he knows better than to disturb Bucky when he’s just woken up.

Bucky blinks his eyes open and stretches.

“I think I want to go shower,” he says absently, then looks over at Steve. “Um, I mean, if that’s alright with you?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I just…” Bucky stops, looking awkward. “Do you mind if I have some time alone? Not...not that this wasn’t good, but I think I need to go and meditate for a bit. Find some balance?”

It sounds like a question, and Steve hurries to reassure him.

“It’s fine, Bucky. I know you’re not going anywhere. I could probably do with some time alone, too.”

Bucky looks relieved. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Then he grins. “We could try again, maybe?”

It makes him giddy, that grin. He wants to sing and dance and shout for joy that Bucky is _his_ , that after all the pain and awkwardness and embarrassment of the past few days he’s still here, wanting Steve, wanting to be Steve’s. But he contents himself with grinning back and saying, “sure.”

They both get up, and Bucky wriggles himself into minimal robes so that he can walk back to his own hut with a bit of decorum, although it’ll be obvious to anything more than a casual observer what they’ve been up to. It’s written all over Bucky’s disheveled appearance and the shy, quiet joy he’s radiating. _And_ , Steve notices, wincing, the love bites on his neck. He understands Bucky’s reasons for wanting some time apart, but it’s still a pang when he leaves, after any long, slow kisses, each longer than the last and each supposed to be “the last one, really, okay, maybe this one, no _definitely_ …” before Bucky, laughing, backs out of the hut and out across the walkway.

After watching him go, Steve goes to the sink in his room and splashes himself down with some cool water. Then he flops back down onto his bed and closes his eyes.

He drifts for a while before he realizes that he’s not alone in his head; Bucky has joined him, and his presence is soothing, like bathing in soft sunlight. The sensation is so strong it’s like he’s back in Bucky’s arms, and Steve drifts off to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

He’s shaken awake by Thor and it’s like fighting through treacle. His eyes struggle to open as the dream keeps a resolute hold on him.

“Friend Steven, please wake up, something is terribly wrong.”

Finally, he’s able to struggle awake, Thor’s hand on his shoulder both grounding and guiding. His presence strangely strong within the Force for someone with no gift in it.

“What? Wha’s?”

“I can rouse no one.” For the first time since Steve has known him, Thor sounds genuinely worried.

Then he feels it, the blackness and despair like a thick suffocating blanket over their little hideout. The mental pressure is immense, and Steve has to breathe for a few moments to regain his composure, to get his own shields in place, to press away the darkness.

“Alright, we have to wake Wanda up, now.”

They make their way through the dark walkways to Wanda’s hut. Steve doesn’t knock: he can feel her inside, asleep, trapped in the sickly dream. She’s curled up on her side in her room, trying to protect her head when he gets to her. Once Steve figures out how the dream is holding her it’s easier, pressing through the anguish and hate that now surround her.

He feels her mind, hasn’t been this close to her since the incident in the ship. He pushes through the discomfort, the doubt. This is the only way to help now.

 

He draws her the garden at the temple. The one where all young Jedi would have played once or twice, with old trees and berry bushes, pulling the sights and sounds and smells from his memory.

He’s young now too, skinny and weak and leading her along the hidden pathway near the stone fences into his secret hiding place, showing her the small cave formed by the roots of the tree.

She smiles, touches his hand, whispers _thank you_.

 

Then they’re back in the room, Wanda struggling to sit up, shaking her head and limbs. Gasping for breath a little. She reaches out for Steve as soon as she’s fully up, pulling him into a gentle hug. It’s the first time she’s touched him as more than just her Master. Her hands pull at his shirt where she’s holding him. Steve brings his hands over her back, trying to hold her gently in return, give her the reassurance she’s looking for.

“What’s happening?” Her voice still shakes, and Steve just holds her harder.

“I don’t know, I think it’s some kind of an attack.”

The nightmare, the pressure, is still there, hovering over them. Steve presses back with all his might, trying to shield both her and Thor, to give them a moment to think. With both of them there, Steve feels more centered, more in control of the environment, and he’s able to pick through that black mental fog that covers their home.

The center of the storm is on Bucky’s and Natasha’s huts. He should have seen it before, should have guessed, but at least they know now. Know what to do.

He holds out his hand to Wanda.

“Do you trust me?”

She nods, her face grim and determined.

“I’m going to go in and I need you to come with me. I’m going to need more power than I have alone to beat this. When you get inside it, just think of something – someplace kind, somewhere safe.”

She nods again, drawing a breath.

He turns to Thor.

“If we don’t wake before morning, take Tony and Bruce and Clint off-world. They might be able to wake away from here if this fails.”

Thor just shakes his head. “I will not abandon you. Nor will I leave Natasha or James behind.” Then he smiles. “I have faith in you, Steven.”

It does make Steve smile, and he can feel the lightening in Wanda too. It’s good, good to feel someone’s belief and faith; it gives him strength too.

He looks at Wanda and they both nod.

 

There’s no shape to the nightmare. Just pressure and darkness. Endless, shapeless corridors that lead nowhere. Seeping all the hope out of them. But it’s easier with two. Feeling the bright spark of Wanda’s mind next to him, looking and searching.

Steve doesn’t know how long it takes, but then he feels it, the familiar shape of Bucky, the grooves and notches of his mind that Steve’s been learning anew.

He reaches for Bucky, the cool night sky of Baros, the desert wind and endless stars over their heads.

He can feel, see just from the corner of his eye, something lush and beautiful. A small yard maybe, unkept and wild. It feels like home, safety. Two small children running among the tall grass. Their laughter echoes in the air.

Steve can feel when Wanda catches hold of Natasha, when a third small child with flaming red hair joins the two.

Then Bucky’s with him, the breeze catching in the folds of his robes, his hand sure and firm against Steve’s palm.

The darkness swirls over them, now an angry centerless storm. It moves and attacks, reaching none of them. Not the two men standing hand-in-hand in the desert, nor the screaming, laughing children playing in the grass, and like all storms, it eventually dies, wears out its energy and anger and dissipates into the far distance.

 

Steve blinks awake on the floor of Wanda’s room. Dawn is just beginning to lighten the horizon. It’s clearly been hours.

He looks up to see Thor sitting in a chair in the corner, watching over them. He smiles tiredly.

“Welcome back. Even I can feel that it is over.”

Steve nods, pushing himself up from the floor. Reaching his hand out to Wanda and his mind out to Bucky, who tells him not to fuss. He’s on his way to check on Natasha.

Steve gives himself a moment to breathe, to just sit within his own mind alone, feeling everyone waking in the periphery of him. His friends. His _family_. He thinks he can say that now, feel that towards this strange ragtag bunch of people who have come to form such strong bonds in such a short amount of time.

Eventually, they all convene in the kitchen. Both Bucky and Natasha look worn, but determined.

Bucky is the first to speak, voice hoarse but steady.

“It’s him. It’s Pierce.”

Natasha nods, grim, leaning against the kitchen table like she still needs the support. “We both felt it, felt him. He was trying to erase us.”

“Erase you?” Wanda asks, sounding bewildered.

Bucky shudders, his eyes closing. “He would – He could erase memories. He _did_ erase memories. They would come back sometimes. Sometimes not. Steve’s been helping me remember.”

Steve reaches out to him, touching his shoulder. Both of them needing the reassurance of physical contact. Bucky touches his hand briefly but continues, his voice steady.

“He was trying to erase both me and Natasha, completely, so there would be nothing left.” He looks up at Steve and Wanda. “We owe you our lives, both of us.”

Natasha nods, reaching out to touch Steve for the first time, her small hand coming to rest on his elbow, and he can feel her gratitude even through the barriers of her mind. She then turns to Wanda, and there’s a silent conversation Steve isn’t privy to, doesn’t even want to be. There are things that don’t belong to him.

Finally, Bucky turns to the others. “Before – before you got me out, I saw him – saw what he wanted. He’s going to Coruscant. He was – afraid I think. Of us, of what we know about him. We have to warn the Council.”

They both know what that means, and Steve is already shaking his head.

“Bucky –”

“No, Steve, you don’t understand what he’s capable of. We have to warn them. There are – there are little ones at the temple. We have to warn them.”

He’s accepted it, accepted his fate if they return to Coruscant, Steve realizes with a terrifying jolt, but he can’t say no. Can’t deny Bucky this, and he can’t condemn the others to Pierce’s influence.

He nods at Bucky. “We’ll go then.”

“Well, you’re not leaving me behind. He tried to kill me, I want in if you’re going after him.”

Natasha’s voice is hard. She and Bucky share a grim look over the table, both visibly still shaken from the nightmare. Clint steps a fraction of an inch closer to her.

“Where she goes, I go.”

Tony rolls his eyes, saying “yes, yes, we all know, Romeo” to which Clint just scoffs, his ears reddening.

Thor raises his mug like a salute. “I for one will not say no to an adventure. Or to a good fight!” Not to be outdone, Tony cuts in with, “well, it’s my ship, so it’s not like you can leave without me. Jarvis won’t fly it without me on board, you know.”

There’s a moment of silence, until Bruce, who’s been silently sitting at the corner of the table, raises his voice.

“Were you all just planning to leave me here?”

Steve can’t help but smile a little, even in such dire circumstances.

“Okay, okay. We’ll _all_ go then.”

 


	8. Scotomia

 

“So what’s the plan?” Steve asks as they approach the landing pad.

“Well, I don’t know what _your_ plan is, but I’m going home,” Tony says, his voice nonchalant. “I’ve already been away for weeks longer than I meant to. Now I want to go back to my mansion. It’s been too long since I saw a properly stocked drinks cabinet.”

Steve knows better than to take him at his word, no matter how much he’s carefully trying to seem like he doesn’t care, and his suspicions are confirmed when Bruce says mildly, “Plus, it’ll be much easier for us to monitor communications from there,” and Tony doesn’t disagree.

“I’m coming with you,” Natasha says, her face set.

“I don’t think that will be possible,” Steve says gently. He doesn’t want to push her away; he can feel how personal this is for her, and he would rather not cross Natasha under any circumstances, but the amount of potential bureaucratic hold-ups that attempting to bring non-sanctioned people into the Jedi Complex would generate doesn’t bear thinking about. Plus, he really doesn’t want a bigger audience for the inevitable dressing-down he’s going to get when he slinks back in there after the way he left last time.

“Yeah,” Tony breaks in, “I don’t even know whether non-Jedi are allowed in the Temple, but I don’t think now’s the time to push our luck.”

Steve very carefully doesn’t shoot him a grateful glance. Natasha looks mutinous, like she’s ready to force her way in regardless of whatever anyone else says, but Clint breaks in shyly.

“Natasha, I have a house on Coruscant,” he says. “Would...would you like to see it?”

“Where is it?” Thor asks, ever inquisitive.

“In CoCo town. Not far, really, it’s a nice walk.”

He looks so hopeful, Steve’s heart almost breaks for him. Natasha takes a moment or two to answer, but then she says, “CoCo town, huh? I’ve never been there.”

“I know it well!” Thor says cheerily. “Whereabouts is your house? My favourite restaurant is in the area, perhaps we could all go!”

“Meanwhile, you three are going to go do the big heroic stuff, yes?” Tony says, turning back to Steve while Clint tries to politely discourage Thor from accompanying him and Natasha, without, it seems, a great deal of success.

Neither Wanda nor Bucky looks particularly enthusiastic about going back to the Temple either, but he can’t really leave his Padawan behind, and without Bucky, it’ll be a lot harder to convince everyone what Pierce is up to, or where he’s been all this time. So he looks to them both and says “yeah?”

“Well, this _was_ my idea,” Bucky says, and Steve can feel him strengthen his resolve despite his misgivings. Wanda says nothing, but, after a moment, she gives a tiny nod.

“Okay.” Steve sighs heavily. “Let’s get going. Stark? Stay on comms in case and stand by.”

“Roger that,” Tony says, with an exaggerated wink that suggests he thinks he’s the only one ever to make that joke, and Steve rolls his eyes.

They make their way off the ship in silence. Steve at least is trying to build up his shields again. There’s so much in his mind that he doesn’t want the Council to be able to see, even more than there was last time. Bucky paces beside him, but Wanda lags behind, and Steve has to hold himself back from snapping at her to hurry up. It becomes more obvious the closer they get to the Temple Complex that she really doesn’t want to go back. Finally, when there’s about 500 yards to go, Steve stops and confronts her.

“Is there a problem, Wanda?”

Wanda doesn’t meet his eyes, instead staring at the ground. He has a reasonably good suspicion as to why she’s been dragging her feet, and he’s sympathetic, but they don’t have time for this now, not when Pierce could have already arrived.

“Wanda?” he prompts again, and this time she looks up, her lip trembling.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I can’t…I don’t want to…”

“We have to hurry,” he says, not unkindly, doing everything he can to keep any judgement from his voice. “I don’t want to make you go back there, but we don’t have much choice if we’re going to stop Pierce from taking over.”

“I just…I remember, last time, I…”

Wanda is visibly distressed, wringing her hands together, her skin pale. She looks almost like she did the first time he talked to her, like she wants to be sick. He wonders whether he should have left her on the ship; he hadn’t wanted her to think he considered her incapable, but it’s clear she really isn’t happy to be here.

“Why don’t you give her a moment, Steve?” Bucky says. “We can go ahead, and once Wanda feels better, she can come and find us.”

Wanda looks uncertainly between him and Steve. “Are you sure?”

Steve nods, grateful to Bucky for suggesting it. “Yes. Take some time, centre yourself, ready your shields. And I promise, once you’re back in there, I won’t let anybody hurt you. You’re my Padawan now, and under my protection.”

She smiles gratefully at them both. “Thanks. And I’m sorry, I just…”

“Don’t apologise,” Steve says. “Just come when you’re ready.”

Wanda nods and turns away from them, taking a deep breath, her forehead furrowed in determination. He has no doubt that she’ll make it; she’s shown herself to be braver than even he could have expected. Steve looks at Bucky and they set off again at a pace that’s only just shy of a run. By the time they get to the Temple Complex, without having verbally agreed on anything, they’re sprinting.

It’s not the done thing to run here, and they attract confused stares from everyone around them as they rush up the steps. Steve almost knocks a couple of apprentices over and yells “sorry!” over his shoulder as he hurtles into the building; they look just as apologetic at having gotten in the way of a Master, but Steve doesn’t have time to listen to their stuttering.

All the administrative parts of the Council are on the third floor, in the centre of the building. Steve just makes it into the elevator as the doors close, Bucky crashing behind him. They wait for what feels like endless seconds while it climbs. Then the doors ding open and they’re off again, pelting down the corridor.

“Steve, wait!” Bucky says, grabbing his sleeve when they reach the open hallway that forms the entrance to the High Council Chamber. “How do you know they’re going to accept me?”

Steve’s feet stop just in time for him not to go tumbling to an undignified heap on the floor.

“What?”

“All the things I’ve done...I’ve murdered so many people, Steve, I did terrible things...how can they ever let me back in here?”

“But that wasn’t you,” Steve says, because he can’t think of anything else to say and he can’t imagine how anyone could see it differently. “Pierce...he was controlling you, right? He brainwashed you, tortured you. I saw it in your dream. They’ve got to believe you. I’ll vouch for you.”

Bucky gives a dark laugh. “You really think that’ll be enough? You vouching for me? Seriously, Steve, you need to stop, think about how we’re going to do this. You can’t just go charging in there! Pierce could be anywhere, we need to be careful, we –“

“Master Rogers!”

Bucky freezes at the sound, and Steve looks away from him to see Master Fury approaching from out of the Chamber. His heart sinks.

“It’s okay, Bucky, he’s a friend,” Steve says, not feeling remotely confident of this given how he spoke to Fury the last time they met, but wanting to believe the best nevertheless. At least it’s not Coulson, or Hill.

“Master Fury,” he says in greeting, trying to sound as deferential as possible. A lot depends on him being able to keep this together, not just for himself or even for Bucky, but for the safety of the entire Jedi Order.

“Master Rogers. I was not expecting you to return here,” Master Fury says, eyebrow raised, which is one of his more subtle ways of showing emotion. “I was under the impression you had turned your back on the Jedi, and yet word was just sent to the Council meeting that you had been spotted arriving back at the Temple.”

Oh, it’s going to be hard to keep his temper in check, but he can, he can do it for Bucky. Despite Fury’s pause, he says nothing, knowing better than to fill an apparent silence in case it’s just an overly long breath.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? And who is your companion?”

“This is…” Steve stops, because he has no idea how to introduce Bucky. What is his rank? Apprentice? Master? Something else? He can hardly call him his lover. “This is…my friend,” he continues lamely. “James Buchanan Barnes. We trained at the Academy together. But there’s something really important we have to –“

Suddenly, he feels Bucky freeze beside him, and he looks over Fury’s shoulder to see a tall figure walking purposefully towards them out of the High Council Chamber, flanked by several guards. _Pierce_.

“No! Master Fury, we have to tell you, please, it’s Pierce, he…” Steve babbles, losing his composure completely, but it’s too late; Pierce has already reached them.

“Ah, Master Rogers,” he says, with geniality to his voice that sounds almost genuine. Steve had forgotten how unpleasant he found the sight of the man, and he feels a moment of fierce vindication that he was right to dislike him so much. Pierce’s shields are good though; there’s nothing coming from him, and if Steve didn’t know any better, he’d swear that his kind grandfather act would fool him too. He’s paralysed with anger at seeing the man who took Bucky away from him and tortured him for years, but also with fear; how are they going to get out of this?

A flash of something passes across Pierce’s face, a momentary glimpse of triumph, and Steve recoils. He can’t give in to his emotions like this. It’s exactly what Pierce wants.

“You see now why I was wise to bring my guards with me?” Pierce says to Fury as the guards step forward, shielding Pierce, and draw their lightsabers. Bucky doesn’t share Steve’s indecision; he draws, but Pierce says “seize him,” almost casually, as though he’s suggesting they all go and sit down to discuss things over a cup of tea. One of the guards throws a containment field pod that springs up and immediately encircles Bucky. Steve’s never seen one used before, and he’s got no idea how to break it. He sees Bucky’s lightsaber bounce harmlessly off the inside of it, his voice muted by the field, though he’s obviously shouting furiously.

“No!” Steve cries, reaching for his own lightsaber, but Master Fury grabs his arm before he can get to it. There’s will behind the hold, and the Force crackles around them.

“My apprentice has returned,” Pierce says, his voice calm and level. Something about that voice makes everyone around him stop and listen; it’s hypnotic, like he’s got some kind of hold over everyone, even though Steve knows that shouldn’t be possible. “As you can see, he is once more trying to kill me, as I was just explaining to the Council. He is relentless.”

“That’s not true!” Steve shouts, struggling harder, but Fury’s grip is too strong to break. “It was you, you tried…”

“Thank you, Master Rogers, for bringing him to us. Your loyalty is appreciated. I take it you saw the wanted notice for him and decided to play bounty hunter?”

“ _No!_ ” Steve yells, “That’s not what happened! Bucky!”

“Take him away,” Pierce says coolly, and the guards flanking Bucky surround him and start walking, buoying the pod along with them as they go. Steve wants to go after them, but there’s no way he’d be able to defeat them all on his own, not with so many other people around and no time to explain. Not to mention Fury’s constant grip on his wrist.

_Steve_. Wanda’s voice breaks into his head, and he looks wildly around for her. _It’ll be okay. Just whatever you do, don’t get yourself captured as well._

He spots her a few feet away, hovering nervously by a pillar, watching. She must have followed them after calming herself, and he feels proud all over again that she only needed a moment, even after everything horrible that happened to her in here. He knows she’s right, knows it’ll be even more hopeless if they both get captured, but still, seeing Bucky being taken away from him by Pierce, _again_ , is almost more than he can stand.

_I’ll come back for you_ , he thinks desperately at Bucky’s retreating form. _I swear, I’ll come back for you._

“Excellent timing, Rogers,” Pierce is saying to him, and he forces himself to look attentive. “This will do a lot to redeem your reputation with the Council. I’ve just been hearing about how you’ve been quite the renegade. I’ve had a lot to catch up on from my time away.”

He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder in what’s clearly meant to be a supportive manner, and Steve has to forcibly restrain himself from shrugging it off. He has to get away from him; once he does, he can come up with a plan, but it’s difficult when he’s pinned between Pierce and Fury, both physically and mentally.

“I do hope my apprentice hasn’t managed to poison your mind against me as well?” Pierce enquires. “I imagine he’s fed you some very far-fetched stories.”

“He told me the truth!” Steve says stiffly, knowing he’s pushing his luck, but unable to let Pierce have everything his way.

“What he says is the truth and what the truth actually is are two very different things,” Pierce says calmly. “As with all the Sith, he is a master of lies and deceit. I would advise you to put whatever he said out of your mind. Now, Master Fury, I believe we have a Council meeting to return to, now we have established that the cameras were correct and that this really is Rogers?”

“Yes, of course,” Fury says. “Rogers. Whatever you’ve come here for, it has to wait.”

“But I need to talk to you about…” Steve says, and Pierce stops.

“But of course,” he says, with a smile that makes Steve’s teeth itch. “This is perfect. Rogers can give you an account of how he apprehended my apprentice and his own experience of the evil inside him. I’m sure it’s a thrilling story.”

Pierce has got him by the balls, Steve knows. There’s no way he can refuse a request to attend the Council, even disgraced as he is. Pierce and Fury frogmarch him into the High Council Chamber, where, for the second time in a few months, he finds himself faced with the entire Council.

He’s going to have to watch his step here. Pierce will take any chance he can get to incriminate him, and he’ll never get Bucky out if he lets that happens. _May the Force be with us_ , he thinks, and does everything he can to clear his mind as he follows Fury and Pierce back into the Chamber.

“Master Rogers?” says Master Coulson, looking up as they enter and sounding surprised. “So it was you on the cameras. I’m glad you have returned. But surely it wasn’t necessary to...”

“Master Rogers has brought back my fugitive apprentice,” Pierce says, talking over Coulson, which visibly perturbs about half of the Council members. That isn’t the done thing. _Even worse than running in the Temple_ , Steve thinks hysterically, and then he has to stop himself from giggling out loud.

Nobody says anything, because expressing anything as base as shock is thoroughly unwelcome in the High Council Chamber, but the tension in the room noticeably mounts.

“I thought he might regale us with the story of his capture,” Pierce says, and then gestures to Steve to start talking.

Steve Rogers is perhaps not a very good politician, but he can fake it with the best of them. He remains politely silent, waiting for someone to prompt him with a question. It’s a war of nerves, but he’s determined not to crack first. Let their curiosity overwhelm them.

_Be careful, Steve_ , Wanda says in his head again, and he’s glad of her presence, even though he doesn’t need the warning; without it, he’d feel completely alone.

From behind him, somebody asks, “Where did you find Master Pierce’s apprentice?”

“Bespin.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Visiting.”

“How did you find him?”

“Accident.”

“So you weren’t looking for him?”

“No.”

“What was he doing?”

“Fighting.”

“What were you doing when you found him?”

“Nothing.”

It’s taking everything he has to keep his shields up while keeping his voice as monotonous as possible. He can sense that everyone around him is completely exasperated, but they can’t bring themselves to say it outright. He’d be enjoying this if he wasn’t so scared.

“Could you perhaps be a little more helpful with your answers, Master Rogers?” says Pierce. Steve can feel him probing at his shields. “I would appreciate more detail. After all, you have just proven yourself a hero. There is no need to be so modest.”

“Sorry,” Steve replies stubbornly, still not looking away from Pierce, determined not to give him the satisfaction.

“Why don’t I just ask you some very simple questions? You and Barnes were at the Academy together, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You were friends?”

“Yes.”

“You were…close friends?”

Pierce raises his voice delicately at the end of the question, somehow managing to imbue it with every possible unsavoury implication despite the innocuousness of the words. Steve feels himself flush, but he won’t look away.

“Interesting. I seem to remember you being particularly upset when I selected him as my apprentice – you can imagine how much I regret that now, of course – and having to be removed from the scene?”

Steve’s cheeks are glowing red, and he hears murmurs from the other Council members, but still he keeps his head up, saying nothing. “Improper,” someone mutters behind him, and he wants to turn around, but he mustn’t, he _mustn’t…_

“I wonder whether it is possible that my apprentice has corrupted you?” Pierce continues. “It wouldn’t be your fault, of course; mental weakness often goes hand-in-hand with physical weakness, and I’m sure we all remember how you were as a boy…”

“That’s not true!” Steve blurts out, his temper rising. “Nobody corrupted me. _You_ corrupted –“

“Rogers, if you cannot contain yourself, I am going to have to have you removed,” Fury breaks in. Pierce’s face is an almost neutral mask, but the light of satisfaction is glowing in his eyes.

“Ah. As you can see, he is completely addled. My apprentice was extremely powerful. Him being Rogers’s old friend cannot have helped. Attachments, as we have always said…”

He trails off significantly, and the murmurs start up again. Everything Pierce says, it’s like they’re eating out of his hand. How can Steve get through to them? Whatever he says, Pierce twists his words to incriminate Bucky further, and he’s going to end up in the cell next door if he’s not careful.

Would that be so bad really? At least he’d be with Bucky, then.

_Yes it would_ , Wanda interjects. Steve jumps slightly; he’d almost forgotten she was there with him. _You and Bucky would get your big romantic finish, but Pierce would still doom the galaxy! Get your head out of your ass, Steve! Focus!_

“So how can we be sure Rogers has not been compromised as well?” Coulson asks, and Steve would dearly love to poke him in the eye. With a lightsaber. This is exactly what Pierce was trying to get someone else to say.

“Perhaps he should be imprisoned as well, for everyone’s safety?” says an ancient Council member Steve doesn’t recognise and who looks like a withered apple, while Pierce nods slowly.

“My apprentice was not only responsible for driving me into hiding, but also for the torture and murder of many people over those long years,” he says. As he speaks, a strange weight descends on the room, making it difficult to think. It’s like trying to move through thick mud. “You must have sensed it from him, Master Rogers, even with your low status. Horrible for you to have seen it, even second hand. Witnessing that kind of thing would turn even the strongest of minds away from the light side of the Force, and for a junior Master such as yourself... We can have only the deepest sympathy for you and what you have suffered.”

There are murmurs again, people nodding gravely. Everything is taking a long time to reach his brain, somehow, but Pierce keeps talking, and the words weave around him like a spider’s web.

“We will have to take steps, of course. In such an extreme case, remedial therapy will be needed for my apprentice. Steps to ensure his compliance. To ensure that he will not harm others again.”

More murmurs, more agreements. There’s something wrong, he needs to say it, but he can’t make the words come.

“Only the most humane methods, of course, which have been proven to bring about permanent conversion. If they are successful, then we can perhaps use them for similar problems in the future with other recalcitrant apprentices.”

There are more nods. “Humane,” he hears from around the circle. “Conversion. Yes.” And then Pierce looks straight at Steve and smiles, and Steve blinks, his eyes moving impossibly slowly, and then suddenly it’s like he has a window into Pierce’s head, like peering down a dark tunnel, and at the end of it, he sees a chair, electrodes, a tank…

“No...no…” he says, and Pierce’s eyes widen minutely, and he knows what Steve saw, that he got past his shields, and he’s got to get out, he’s got to...

“And as Rogers has been so quick to defend his old friend, we may have no option but to imprison him as well,” Pierce says quickly, his voice suddenly much more decisive, and the Council are nodding, and Steve’s head feels like it’s going to explode, and the Force thrums around him, and...

The door suddenly bursts open, and Wanda flies into the room, her braid whipping around and her eyes wild. She’s panting as though she’s out of breath, like she’s been running at full speed, but Steve knows that can’t possibly be true, not given where she was when he was hustled away.

Wanda makes a great show of looking around the room and then spotting Steve.

“Master!” she says dramatically, bowing low to the ground. “The evildoer has been apprehended!”

This is so far from anything that Steve was expecting her to say that he gapes at her. His brain is still full of fog.

“Um,” he says after a moment, into the ringing silence. “What?”

“The _evildoer_ ,” Wanda says, twisting her face into an expression of distaste, which hides her disappointment at how slow he is to catch on. Her mind, on the other hand, is very loud on that point. “Our prisoner. I have just heard he was apprehended. We can rejoice and be safe.”

Wanda’s presence in the High Council Chamber seems to slowly lift the fog from Steve’s brain, and he realises he’d better say something.

“Oh, the evildoer. Yes. Him. I was just explaining –”

He can move his head again, but the others in the room are still in a torpor, looking confused, blinking dazedly. All except for Pierce, who looks irritated, and Fury, who is watching the proceedings with a shrewd expression.

“Explaining how we captured him?” Wanda encourages him. “I’m sure the Council understands –”

“Who are you, my dear?” Pierce breaks in, and there’s a horrible sort of interest in his eyes as they rake over her body. Steve feels a fierce surge of protectiveness, but there’s something about the way that Wanda meets his gaze without flinching that tells him she can look after herself.

“I am Master Rogers’s Padawan,” she replies. “And he is innocent, and you should let him go.”

She and Pierce have locked eyes, and there’s something happening that Steve doesn’t understand, some struggle between them that he can’t fully see or feel, like two currents of air pushing against one another.

“He is innocent, and we should let him go,” says Coulson from behind them, like a sleep-talker, and all at once the rest of them start up making murmurs of agreement.

“I really don’t think –” Pierce starts, but Fury rises to his feet and talks over him.

“We have no evidence against Rogers, Alexander, and besides, he and his Padawan have no place in here if they cannot tell us anything useful. We have captured your apprentice, he will pose no threat to us here. I suggest we take some time to meditate on this. Rogers, take your Padawan and go.”

Steve can’t quite believe how quickly things have turned around. Everyone else in the room except for Pierce and Fury still seems to be half-asleep. Wanda grabs his sleeve and tugs, hissing, “Steve! Now!” and he lets her pull him out of the room.

The door closes behind them, and Steve collapses against the wall for support to wait for his head to stop spinning.

“What _was_ that?!” he asks, breathing deeply, and Wanda rolls her eyes.

“It’s a mind trick, Steve. A really strong one.”

Steve has never heard of anyone strong enough to mentally overpower the Council. “Pierce? And you fought him? How?”

“I’ve always had a knack for them. They never let me practice at the Academy, but I’ve been doing a few on Clint and Thor on Rishi.”

“But you must be really powerful to –”

“Steve. We can talk about how powerful I am later. Right now, we don’t have much time. We need to get to Bucky before the Council recovers.”

Steve had almost forgotten rescuing Bucky in all of this. He casts his mind around for him, the warm, soft presence that he’d gotten used to over the past few days, and finds to his horror that he can’t feel him anymore.

“I can’t feel him,” he says slowly, not really wanting to contemplate what that means but having to say it out loud. “I can’t feel him! Wanda…”

“So he must be in the cells, then,” Wanda says, a hint of impatience in her voice, and Steve feels stupid for having forgotten about them.

“Okay. Basement.” He pushes away from the wall and the room wobbles dangerously. “Maybe...maybe in a minute.”

“I’ll go with you,” Wanda says. “I can help you. We don’t have much time.”

He can’t take her down to the cells, not after everything she suffered down there. “Wanda, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t ask me then, isn’t it?” she says, and takes his arm. He tries not to sag too heavily onto her; she’s much shorter than him, and staggering slightly under his weight. She’s using the Force to prop him up too as they make slow progress down the corridor and towards the elevator, and the further away he gets from the High Council Chamber, the clearer his head feels.

“That must have been a hell of a mind trick,” he says, once they reach the relative privacy of the elevator.

Wanda snorts. “The Sith can do that.”

“But you could fight him?”

“I could push him back, a bit. Enough to get us some time. But we don’t have much. You saw what Pierce wants to do to Bucky.”

Steve can’t help but flash back to those images. The chair, the crackling of electricity, screams and blood and fear rank in the air.

The elevator doors open at the basement level and they step out, Steve able to support himself now he’s got some distance from Pierce. There’s a long corridor in front of them, and at the end of it are four guards. Panic surges in him; he’s feeling better, but he’s not confident he can take them all out, not with enough time to get Bucky out without arousing suspicion.

“What are we going to do?” he asks, and of course that’s when they look up.

“Let me handle them,” Wanda says out of the corner of her mouth. She steps in front of Steve and says, “gentlemen.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Um, we’re fine,” Steve flounders, and he can almost hear Wanda’s eyeroll as he continues, saying, “how are you?” completely involuntarily.

Okay, that one makes him cringe too.

“What do you want with the prisoner?”

“We were sent by Master Pierce,” Wanda says. “We are your replacements and you are needed elsewhere.”

Steve has to admit it, he’s impressed. It’s even better when his own brain isn’t addled. Suddenly some of Clint and Thor’s recent, weirder actions make a bit more sense.

One of the guards looks like she might argue.

“Are you sure? This isn’t what we were told,” she says, but one of the others takes her arm.

“Didn’t you hear? They’re our replacements. We’re needed elsewhere.”

Won over by her three comrades, the fourth guard shrugs her shoulders and follows them out.

“You’ve got to teach me how to do that,” Steve says, and Wanda laughs.

“You’d never manage it, Steve. You’re too honest. Now go, get your man!”

He flushes.

“Are you sure you’re…” he begins, but Wanda shoos him away.

“I’ll be fine as long as I stay here and don’t think too much. Go!”

Once he’s through the door into the dingy hallway, he feels the temperature drop by several degrees. It’s a weird, oppressive place, like a cave; even though he knows the Jedi Temple Complex is on a warm, dry planet, it feels almost damp. No wonder Wanda had hated it. Each cell door is heavy stone; there are no windows, no communication hatches. Despite knowing that Bucky’s in here, he can’t sense him; all of his senses have been dulled by the thick, stone walls.

“Bucky?” he calls.

There’s no answer.

“Bucky?” he tries again, less certain of himself. What if they were wrong and Bucky isn’t here at all?

“Steve, he won’t hear you,” Wanda calls to him from the top of the stairs. “Everything in the cells is designed to keep out sensory stimulation.”

“So how do we get him out?” Steve says, very carefully not snapping, because he knows this isn’t her fault.

“I don’t know,” Wanda says, and he can sense her own frustration. “They didn’t really tell me how it worked when I was in here.”

Steve retreats from the hall, willing himself to keep calm. Once he’s out in the light again, he spots a small room off to the left, which looks like it has some kind of control desk in it. The room is filled with screens, all of them blank except for the far one, which shows Bucky sitting on a small cot, his head in his hands.

“Here!” Steve calls. Now, how to get the doors open? The screens are numbered, and when he looks down he can see that the numbers correspond to panels on the desk. He finds the panel matching Bucky’s cell number. Six buttons to choose from. After turning on the lights – which he can tell from the way Bucky jumps – and pressing something that doesn’t seem to do anything, he gets it right on the third try, and the door opens slowly.

Pausing only to grab the lightsaber that he recognises as Bucky’s from the side of the console, he dashes back into the cell block, calling Bucky’s name. By the time he reaches the last cell, the door has opened fully, and then he hears Bucky say “Steve?”, sounding disbelieving. He’s blinking, even in the low light of the corridor. He has two black eyes and a split lip, but seems otherwise unharmed.

“What are you doing here?”

Steve feels like that should be obvious, really.

“I’m here to rescue you,” he says, throwing him his lightsaber. Bucky gets up and catches it one-handed, grinning.

“What kept you so long?” he asks, striding over to Steve and pulling him close. Steve kisses him, tasting blood on his lips, and it’s such a relief to be able to touch him, to see Bucky alive and mostly unharmed, that he loses himself in the moment a little.

From outside, Wanda gives a warning shout of “Steve!”, and a moment later there’s the sound of a throat being cleared from the stairway leading down to the cells.

He looks over to see Fury standing there, lightsaber drawn but not ignited, watching them with an unreadable expression.

“Master Fury…” he starts, with no idea how to continue that sentence, but Fury waves him aside.

“I should have known,” he says. Steve steps in front of Bucky and draws his own lightsaber; he’s reluctant to challenge Fury, but he’s not letting anyone take Bucky. Not this time.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Rogers,” Fury says. “You need to get out of here, quickly. Whatever your Padawan did to the Council – and whatever it was, it was good – it’s wearing off. They’ll be down here before long. Pierce isn’t going to let you go.”

“But why are you helping us?”

“Because you weren’t the only one to see Alexander’s true colours in that meeting,” Fury says. “I had my suspicions about his sudden return, and that confirmed them. I know the therapy he was talking about. No true Jedi would permit it.”

“But the Council decided…” Steve says, and Fury interrupts him.

“I recognise that the Council has made a decision. However, given the fact that it’s a stupid-ass decision, I've elected to ignore it. Now _come on_.”

Steve doesn’t argue again, instead following Fury out of the containment area, Bucky hurrying after him. Wanda is waiting outside, looking uncertain, but Fury gestures and she comes along with them.

“I’m going to escort you to the entrance to the Temple Complex,” Fury says. “Nobody will argue with you if you’re with me, but try not to attract any attention. Hoods up.”

They do as he says, hiding their faces. Fury walks confidently, and, as he said, nobody interferes. Once they’re up on the ground level, Steve feels his senses restored; he can feel Bucky’s presence in his mind again, and he sighs with relief, only just stopping himself from reaching for Bucky’s hand. He hears Bucky make a similar sound from the other side of Fury.

Fury snorts.

“I didn’t even think it was possible,” he mutters to himself. “Not been seen for generations…”

“What?” Steve asks, completely forgetting he’s supposed to be respectful to one of the Heads of his Order, but Fury only says “your bond,” as though that should be obvious, and keeps striding on, people scattering in his wake, while Steve wracks his brains trying to discern what he meant.

“What?” he says again, determined to get an answer out of a Council member for once.

Fury sighs. “The old Jedi warrior bonds, Rogers. Legends. Or so we thought. Like a marriage between two Jedi, sharing minds, spirits, and…bodies.” The last part sounds particularly reluctant. “It was said to be the deepest connection the Force can bring. But they were outlawed centuries ago, following the Council reforms.”

_But how could we –?_ Steve starts to think, but they’ve reached the Temple gates, and Fury, clearly not wanting to encourage this line of thought, says “I trust you have a plan?”

Steve nods, touching the comm unit in his pocket.

“Tony? We need a ride.”

 


	9. Unfettered

 

“I’ve got a ship waiting for you on landing pad 568,” Tony’s voice crackles through the comms. “You’ll be totally cloaked, no comms in or out. It’s the only way to get you out of the system without detection.”

Steve’s hand-held comm pad lights up with the location and the security codes for the shipyard.

“Godspeed my Jedi friend, we’ll see you on the beach!” Tony shouts, and then the line goes dead. From here on in, they’re on their own.

They rush through the back streets, Fury and Steve keeping any curious passers-by focused on other things, but as soon as they get to the dock, something golden flashes above their heads. Steve knows what it is, can feel the hum in his bones.

Bucky notices it too. “They’re closing the shield!” he exclaims, disbelief written in every angle of his body.

To get the planetary defense shield closed just to stop one ship from leaving would take some serious clout. Pierce must be throwing his weight around more than even Fury could have predicted. They all share a grim look, while Steve finally punches in the code to get them inside the private landing pad.

The shield keeps on closing, a slow crawl across the sky, and Steve knows it’s already too late. There’s no way for them to get the ship airborne and through the gap before it’s fully in place. Bucky rushes to the ship, starting the flight sequencing and opening the hatch anyway. His metal fingers glint golden in the light of the advancing shield.

He turns just in time to see Wanda stop in the middle of the landing area, only a few feet away from the now-open ramp leading to the ship. Steve watches as she closes her eyes, and suddenly he can feel her release her power, as if she’d been holding in her breath for the entire time they’ve known each other. It rushes out of her like a dam breaking, red tendrils crackling around her like an approaching thunderstorm.

They lean on the walls and the hydraulics of the ramp for support, all of them gasping for breath under the onslaught of her power. The Force crackles around them, almost visible to the naked eye.

“I’ll hold it.”

She sounds almost serene, but no one moves. They’re all strangely transfixed by her, the glow and power she exudes. She looks almost annoyed when she turns to face him.

“Go, Steve, now.”

Wanda raises her hands up to the sky and Steve can see those red tendrils against the gray clouds in the distance, wrapping around the closing shield.

Stopping it. Holding it in place.

Steve can feel Fury’s surprise and shock too, see it on his face, which in itself is unheard-of at the Temple. Then the blaster fire starts, shots bouncing off the closed door of the hangar. They’re running out of time. Wanda turns to Steve again, her eyes tight and strained.

“Go! I can’t hold it forever.”

“Wanda…” She means to stay, he understands in a horrible instant. Stay, so that Bucky can escape. He should stay, stay with her. She’s his Padawan, his responsibility.

“GO! NOW!” she screams at him, but then he voice softens. “Steve, this is my choice. Please let me do this.”

And he can’t deny her, not when she’s asking him to respect her choice, to have faith in her. To give her the power and trust that no one ever has before. It’s in that second that suddenly spans lifetimes that he understands that this is why they met, this is the moment the Force had been leading them to. The destiny they’re both supposed to face.

He nods then, wanting to do so much more, say so much more, but there’s no time. From the look on her face, he thinks she understands. Feels the same sense of rightness, the calm in the center of the storm. That they’re both exactly where they’re meant to be. One with the Force.

Fury ignites his lightsaber, the purple light reflecting on the gray hull of the ship. The snap-hiss jolting Steve out of his reverie.

“I’ll cover her, Rogers. Go!”

He nods at Fury, again too short on time to express what he really wants to say. The gratitude and respect he holds for the other man. That he understands how much Fury is sacrificing for him, and for Bucky.

The last thing he hears is the blaster bolts deflected by the hum and rumble of Fury’s lightsaber as the ramp closes behind him.

Bucky has all the pre-flight sequencing completed and the engines are already roaring as Steve rushes his way to the cockpit. The ship shakes and trembles from the blaster and ion cannon hits as they race towards the gap in the shield, ignoring the angry voice of the flight controller coming through the comms system.

Steve can feel Wanda in the air around them. The strain in her, the kind of power she’s channeling in order to keep the shield open. He feels almost like her mind is touching his as they race through the tiny sliver of a gap that remains and those red tendrils fighting to keep it open for them.

_May the Force be with you._

Steve closes his eyes, just for a moment, reaches down to her.

_And also with you._

The lines of stars streak across the window as they finally make the jump into hyperspace, and out of the reach of Coruscanti Security Forces and Pierce. Steve finally lets himself breathe for the first time after what feels like an age. The connection cut by the jump, he can now only feel the emptiness of space around him. Emptiness and Bucky. Bucky, who’s silent behind him, closed off suddenly, walls tight around him, even more so than they were after Bespin.

Steve feels out, gently, only to be forced back by a stark wall of ice. It hurts more than anything, especially after Rishi, after everything that’s happened. Here in the void, he feels like he needs that connection more than ever.

When Bucky finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and tired.

“What’s going to happen to everyone?”

“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

“I’m not sure if I’m worth all this, Steve.”

He can feel it again, Bucky’s self-loathing, how much Pierce's words have wounded him. He wants to reach out, to touch, but Bucky doesn’t seem to want that, not yet. Wrapped in his black cloak, hunched in the chair.

Instead, Steve turns around, still held in place by the safety harness. “What you did all those years, it wasn’t you. You didn’t have a choice.”

“I know, but I did it.” He sounds almost steady as he speaks, accepting. “It was my hands, my will, my sword that did it all.”

“Bucky…”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, how to make this better, how to erase the past.

But maybe he shouldn’t want to, shouldn’t want to remove bits of Bucky. That’s what Pierce did. Took things to mold Bucky into his own image, cut out the bits that he saw no need for. This is who Bucky is now, the amalgamation of his experiences, of the things that have made him, and all Steve can do is to accept that, accept him as he is.

He unbuckles the harness, getting out of his seat. Kneels on the floor by Bucky’s feet, gently placing his hands over Bucky’s kneecaps.

“I know, Bucky, I know. There isn’t anything I can do to erase that, there isn’t anything you can do, but _it wasn’t your fault._ ” He leans in, willing Bucky to let him in, even just a small fraction. “And I accept you. I love you, Bucky. All of you, everything you are and have been.”

Bucky lets out a sob and collapses, pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder. That angry, cold veneer he’s worn since they left Wanda on the landing pad finally cracking. Steve holds him tight, letting him hide, held between the restraint of the safety harness and Steve’s body, shuddering as he tries to breathe.

_You’re safe_ , he tries to think. Hoping that Bucky feels it. Running his hands up and down Bucky’s back, glad to be touching again. The separation had been torturous in a way that Steve couldn't ever have fathomed. Like a gap in the force, a missing limb. And what Fury had said…he can’t – if it’s true – he doesn’t even know how.

None of that matters now, not with Bucky finally with him. Finally safe and pulled from Pierce’s influence and his sick, twisted plans. It’s just the two of them now, and the empty void of space.

Bucky tenses in his arms, looking up, and then suddenly they’re kissing, desperate and raw, teeth clashing. It’s still unpracticed and clumsy and oh-so perfect. Their hands fumbling to detach Bucky’s safety harness, tugging on each other’s robes until they’re surrounded by pools of blue and black as they both fall on the floor of the cockpit.

The space isn’t ideal, really. Steve’s foot gets tangled up in the wires under the console and Bucky bumps his head on the pilot’s seat more than once, but neither of them is willing to stop kissing, stop tugging at each other’s clothing in their need to feel one another’s skin. To feel that it’s all real.

Bucky’s tearing at his collar, yanking the fabric aside to get his mouth over the dip of Steve’s neck, on his collarbone, sucking little bruises into the skin.

“I want to see it,” he mutters. “Know that I was here, that this is real.” All the while Steve’s panting, “it’s real, Buck, I promise. It’s real.”

They’re both still so clumsy, hands bumping and whispered apologies exchanged between heated kisses as they try to undress each other. They mostly only get their tunics undone and their pants open.

Bucky spreads his legs in the restricted space of the cabin and Steve settles between them, both hands finding their way onto their cocks. Bucky’s already a bit wet at his dick, foreskin pulled back from the pink tip, a bead of fluid there as Steve runs his thumb over it. Rutting against the side of Bucky’s hip.

Bucky arches into his hands, breathing roughly through his nose, and Steve can feel the shape of Bucky’s mind then, that overwhelming pleasure that annihilates everything else in its wake. He can feel Bucky chasing it, the way his back arches and his hips rock. The way he calls Steve’s name between clenched teeth. Gasps out “ _harder, harder_ ,” and Steve answers by tightening his fist around them both, fucking against Bucky’s cock, breathing in his scent, fingers curled in Bucky’s hair, cradling the back of his head.

He’ll never let go again. _Never_.

Maybe Bucky feels the thought between them, because he comes, sticky and uncontrolled all over Steve’s hand, knees tight over Steve’s hips as he jerks his climax. It doesn’t take long for Steve to follow, just the calluses of Bucky’s hand over the sensitive head of his cock, sliding over the foreskin, and Steve comes with a groan muffled into Bucky’s chest. Toes curling inside his boots.

Finally, _finally_ , Bucky allows him in as they lie on the floor together, his mind slowly opening up, inviting Steve to the places he’d closed off. Steve’s missed it, the familiarity of Bucky’s thoughts. He knows it’s only been less than 24 hours, but it had felt like a lifetime.

“What Fury said, about our connection – about it being like a marriage…”

“If that’s you proposing, it’s terrible, punk.”

Steve coughs out a laugh. Bucky isn’t wrong. It _is_ terrible, but he does want to. Propose, that is. Be together, almost like one being, entwined forever. Like the ancient Jedi Fury described, all those sacred texts, all forbidden now.

“I’ll do it right, on Rishi. At sundown. On the beach.”

“Sure thing, punk,” Bucky says skeptically, but he sounds so fond, fingers carding through Steve’s sweaty hair, petting the short stands at the back of his neck. Eyes still closed where he rests on the floor of the cockpit.

They lie there for a moment longer, exploring each other, minds slowly reacquainting. Eventually, they have to get up, try and salvage what they can of their disheveled clothing and stained pants.

They both shower in the small, cramped bathroom and get something to eat from the tiny kitchen. The ship isn’t really designed for long-distance travel, but they’ll make do. It’s only a few day’s flight to Rishi with a couple of pit stops to hide their trail. Tony had programmed everything into the NavSat for them, with a jaunty note from Jarvis saying not to worry, so Steve tries to get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

Steve wakes up to a loud wail of the emergency channel.

“We’re being hailed,” he mumbles into the pillow, stating the obvious and trying to hide from the noise. Bucky grunts, “Tony said that would be impossible,” into the side of his neck, but picks up the hail on the little com-unit attached to the wall near the sleeping berth anyway.

Before Steve can fully wake, he hears Tony’s voice through the speaker.

“They got Wanda and Natasha.”

He sounds tense, so unlike himself. No jokes, no long drawn-out greetings. Bucky is instantly wide awake, moving to sit on the edge of the berth. “How did they get Nat?”

Steve can hear Clint starting to talk in the background. “It’s all my fault. She got taken because of me.” There’s a tremble in his voice as he speaks. Steve rolls out of the blankets, sitting next to Bucky to better reach the microphone.

“What’s happened?”

“I just wanted to show her the house. I was so stupid. We got ambushed in CoCo Town and she – she defended me, and – and they took her.”

After a long, awful silence, in which they both listen to Clint’s shallow breathing, Tony finally comes back on the line. “They’ve taken her to the Temple. I assume to that horrible prison of theirs.”

Bucky buries his face in his hands, but Tony isn’t done. “It gets worse. I’ve hacked into Pierce’s personal data streams, and –”

Bucky interrupts him mid-flow, looking up. “How did you do that? The encryptions on those streams are brutal.”

Steve can almost feel Tony’s smugness through the connection. “Clearly, they’re not as smart as I am.”

“They’re definitely not as smart as the two of us,” Bruce pipes up from the background, which makes Steve smile a little.

“But seriously Steve, Pierce is bringing in a kill squad from Korriban. We don’t have much time.”

“Shit, and you said they have Wanda?”

“She was captured and taken to the Temple from the landing pad. There’s just too many guards. The Jedi that was with her was taken too. He put up a hell of a fight, from what I was able to see from the cameras.”

It’s Steve’s turn to hide his face in his hands. He should never have left them. He should have stayed. The grim look on Bucky’s face is evidence enough that he agrees.

“Steve.” Bucky reaches for his shoulder, the metal cool and grounding. “We have to go back.”

“I know, but what about –”

He can’t let Bucky go back, not to what Pierce was planning, not to those horrors. Bucky just shakes his head sadly, as if he can hear Steve’s thoughts, which he probably almost can.

“I can’t let them trade my life for theirs. I have too much blood on my hands already. Too much death on my conscience, Steve. If that’s the trade, me for them, then I’ll go willingly, as long as Natasha and Wanda are safe.”

Steve wants to say something, anything, to refute that. He just got Bucky back. Again. But Tony gets there before him, his voice tinny over the connection.

“Okay, hold on there fuzz bucket, nobody’s dying and nobody’s getting captured by the raving loony Shit Lord, and yes, I did say that on purpose. This is a rescue mission, you hear me?! Alright?!”

They both nod mutely, even when they know that Tony can’t see them, but he seems to sense it anyway.

“Good. One more thing. You’ve still got your handheld, yes? They increased security on the cells after you broke lover boy out, I’ll need to hack them for you once you get down there.”

Steve pats his pockets and finds the device.

“Yeah, I’ve got it. What will I need to do?”

“Well, I’ll have to work it out once you get there, but don’t worry, I’ll manage. I’m just that good.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he can’t help be grateful that they’ve got Tony on their side for this. After a short pause, he gives them instructions on how to recalibrate the flight path back to Coruscant. It’s too dangerous for them to land anywhere near the main districts, so Tony’s arranged a transport pod to meet them in the pole that mostly functions as the water treatment and garbage processing center.

Neither of them can get back to sleep on the way back, both restlessly pacing through the small galley of the ship, their minds brushing each other, trying, in turn, to calm one another. Counting down the hours.

 

* * *

 

Steve carves an opening in the storm drain grate which Tony had pinpointed as the perfect entry back into the containment complex that runs under the Temple. Wanda had taken Steve there mostly via the official route, but now that’s no longer an option, for obvious reasons.

They’ve left the speeders hidden under a dirty tarp near the edge of the gully that the drain feeds into. It smells musty and earthy as they walk into the darkness. Tony’s guiding them from afar, secure in his high-rise penthouse. The small line of dots on Steve’s hand-held coms unit direct their way, the shallow blue light providing them with some illumination in the darkness of the tunnel. Otherwise, they rely on the Force to guide them.

Steve feels the bodies and minds beyond the tunnel, even before the unit instructs them to turn into a small alcove and open an emergency access door. They end up in a nondescript hallway. The air is stale like no one’s been there in a good long while. Dust settled on the floor, lights buzzing.

Steve still senses people. Guards, he thinks, from the shape of their minds. Dark, swirling thoughts.

“ _Pierce_ ,” Bucky whispers, with venom. Stalking down the hall without waiting for a response, tearing open the door at the end.

Steve feels the surprise of the guards, feels them ready their blasters. He feels the hungry shape of the grin stretching over Bucky’s mouth. Sees him sink his fist into the control panel by the door, and the corridor is plunged into darkness.

Steve hears the snap-hiss of his lightsaber and the red glow illuminates his face. He sees the guards shifting, their grips of their blasters wavering. He can smell the fear in the air, see the Winter Soldier in Bucky for the first time since Bespin.

He walks slowly, calmly, deflecting each blaster bolt with ease, with just a gentle flick of his wrist. These are Pierce’s men, they know who Bucky is, what’s he capable of. Steve can feel their terror now, the endless question of whether dying for the cause is worth it swirling in each and every single mind. Those thoughts are suddenly cut off as Bucky reaches them. Snuffed out like lights dimming in the darkness.

The lightsaber is an elegant weapon, Steve thinks as he approaches. Fast and deft. Bucky’s blade hums in the darkness, the bodies littered around his feet now, none of them moving. There is no blood.

It _is_ an elegant weapon, after all.

Their eyes meet across the distance and Bucky nods, slowly. There are things that Steve cannot do, and Bucky knows that. He motions with his hand, the silver glinting in the red light.

“Come.”

Bucky pushes the final door open and Steve follows him down into the cells.

The hallway feels barren, empty and bereft. A self-contained little world, and Steve can feel nothing beyond the gray walls. Not life, not the world above, cut off from the stream of the Force. It’s worse than being in space, his own sense of the Force pressing into the walls and fighting the containment like an endless scream. It’s worse than torture for a Jedi, and he wonders again how Wanda survived.

He whispers into the comms.

“Tony, I’m here, I’m in the cells.”

“Great,” Tony’s voice crackles in his ear. “Put the unit up to the door and I’ll get you in.”

Steve does as he’s told, allowing Tony to form a connection from his side. To hack into the codes and release the valves and locks.

After what feels like an aeon, the panel beeps and the locks disengage with a heavy thud somewhere inside the concrete. Steve rests his hand against the heavy door and pushes. He doesn’t even know who’s inside.

They both feel the pulse of the dream, the pull of it, as soon as they enter the small cell.

Fury lies on the cot. His face is smooth and calm, like he’s asleep, his brow unfurrowed, no lines of tension. His breathing even and natural.

Nothing about this is natural.

 

It’s strange, pushing into the dream from being wide awake. From standing in the hermeneutically sealed cell. From that utter silence around them. Everything is in darkness first, wading through that tar-like flow of the nightmare trying to keep them away.

There’s silence and then the familiar snap-hiss. The red blade is bright in the darkness, but it’s not Bucky’s. It’s no one's, a faceless, nameless shape in black. The blade illuminates the huddled mass of Padawans standing behind Fury. Their hands grasping each other, eyes tracking that red blade as it swings silently through the air.

Fury ignites his own lightsaber, but the purple is muted, almost waning in the face of the enemy.

Fury fights, but he isn’t strong enough, Not good enough. Not fast enough, and he falls to the floor, cut down and suddenly helpless. He lies there, his hands and feet cut off. Blood seeping from the wounds, the thick coppery smell choking them all.

Fury watching helplessly as the blade swings, cutting each and every one of the little ones down like sheaves of wheat.

Voiceless, toneless cries. They echo in the darkness.

There’s silence. Then a snap-hiss and the bright, bright red light.

It repeats endlessly. Fury’s blood soaking into the ground, the thick smell of it permeating everything.The nightmare reaching out, trying to pull Steve into its orbit too. He sees Bucky’s face in the crowd of Padawans, sees his own. Hears their voices pleading.

Steve’s lightsaber is in his hand, the blade bright and humming. It connects sparks, pushes the assailant back. Red meeting blue. Fury looks at him uncomprehending. Like he’s not really there at all.

Steve feels the nightmare trembling around him. He isn’t supposed to be here. It’s only designed to hold one mind captive. He breathes and pushes, feels Bucky with him there too, his mind picking apart the manufactured world around them.

 

The first thing Steve hears is Fury’s gasp, a desperate draw of air as he finally wakes, throwing himself off the cot, on his knees on the floor, coughing, his arm still reaching out to someone.

“What are you two idiots doing here?! I told you to go!”

Steve can’t help but snort in the face of Fury’s indignation. “We’re here to rescue you. You’re welcome.”

Fury eyeballs them from the cot for a second and then pushes himself up to standing.

“Well, let’s get the others out while you’re here, then.”

The second door is not far down the corridor. Steve repeats the steps with the handheld unit, and this time it only takes a second for the lock to disengage. The grief and the horror roll over them as soon as the light turns green. As soon as the door rolls open, it pulls them in like the tide out to the sea.

 

It’s Wanda’s voice that echoes in the darkness first.

“It’s not real! It’s not real! I don’t believe you!” she screams as the scene resets. The sickly, oily blackness pulling on them.

Again and again.

The ship is on fire around them. The panels warping and trembling under the heat and pressure. There’s a boy, silver-haired and fast. His Padawan braid like quicksilver in the air as he runs down the corridor, avoiding each obstacle almost as if it’s not there.

He leaps and bounds, crossing the distance in only seconds, and Wanda follows him, desperate and screaming, all the while denying what she is seeing. The heat singeing the tips of her hair. The air is pungent with burning rubber and flesh.

The ship shakes with the force of another ion cannon blast, making them all tumble and fall. The fire burning their hands and legs and shoulders. The metal walls of the hull groan and give way with a sickening tearing sound. There’s a second, and Steve can see the boy looking right at Wanda, their eyes meeting across the brief distance of space and time. The years stretched between them.

Then there is nothing. Just the cold void of space, and Wanda screams.

The nightmare shudders and moves, the foundations of it trembling under the weight of her grief, under the weight of her power. The red tendrils tearing into its reality. Steve can feel Wanda drawing power from them, the way the Force around them trembles, connecting them all.

Somewhere, far away, Steve can feel the room shaking, can feel concrete and stone cracking, crumbling.

 

She’s on the floor, gasping and crying. Begging. A long litany of “ _please please please_.” Steve doesn’t know if she’s begging for the nightmare to end or to continue. If that brief moment of connection is all that she needs, craves, could live the rest of her life being sustained by.

He kneels by her, holds out his hand, pulling her to him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shush or try to offer comfort. There isn’t anything to offer. She shudders and breathes in his embrace, face hidden in the folds of his robe and her cupped hands.

The final door is at the end of the corridor.

Both Fury and Wanda stay away. They’ve made their way to the opposite end of the hallway and into the control room, busy hacking into the Temple’s data streams with Tony’s help. Steve feels Bucky beside him, feels his determination, the resolution of _just once more_.

 

The nightmare swallows them as soon as the door opens. A flicker of motion behind them, and as they turn a small girl is standing in the hallway. Her red hair is a bushy cloud around her face. A dusting of freckles on her nose. Familiar green eyes staring past them.

Like they’re not really there at all.

“Mama? Papa?” she calls out. The voice echoes around them, bouncing off the walls, an unnatural cadence. She sounds young and unsure.

She runs past them, down the hall, and it seems to stretch to infinity. Eventually, her little legs tire and collapse under her weight, and she falls. Skinned knees and palms bleeding into the grain of the wood floor. The scent of blood in the air. The girl cries.

“Mama!” she shouts. Desperately crawling forwards on her bloody knees.

Bucky kneels by her side; his hands are gentle on her back, helping her stand.

“Natasha?”

His voice sounds very far away, and he’s suddenly far in the distance, the corridor stretching between them, and Steve can’t reach either of them anymore.

Natasha looks at Bucky, seeing him; she doesn’t seem to know who he is, but she reaches out to him anyway. Her short, skinny arms waving until he lifts her. Her small hands coming to touch his face, grasping at the stubble over Bucky’s cheeks. Her touch is gentle and his smile is kind.

 

There’s a brief yawning of white and then they’re all in the room, Natasha sitting upright on the cot, her hair in disarray, breathing rough and uneven through her nose. Bucky’s still beside Steve, standing by the door, reaching for his cheek with his right hand, fingers grazing where she’d touched him.

“Thank you.” Natasha’s looking up at them where she sits, and then she laughs. It’s more of a croak really, voice rough and uneven. “I know it makes no sense, but you _are_ home.”

Bucky reaches out to her, their hands briefly touching across the floor of the cell, and Steve catches a glimpse of something dark and twisted, but still reliable and familiar. The way they were both made, molded and unmade in the image of the Dark Side. The comfort that it had brought them both at times.

He doesn’t look deeper. It’s not his place, not now. Instead, he turns, making his way to the other end of the corridor to Fury and Wanda, giving Natasha and Bucky a brief moment of privacy.

 

* * *

 

There’s a metal table in the control room. Screens of computers that are now flickering and jumping from image to image, from camera feed to camera feed, as Tony works his magic and infiltrates the systems.

Steve is watching them all, the Council Chamber, the dormitories, the practice grounds. All so familiar and so foreign at the same time. Once he thought this to be his home, and it feels so alien now, like he’s a stranger here.

Fury is silent by his side and Steve can’t stand it, can’t stand watching the images of this place, now so tainted.

“Pierce has taken in the Council, and what’s worse is that they let him! You let him!” Steve shakes his head. “And no one even noticed.”

“Why do you think we’re down here? I noticed,” Fury tries to placate him, but he lacks the disposition for it, the words coming across as defensive.

“But how many paid the price before you did?” Steve spits out, wanting the fight, but Wanda stops him.

“Steve, this isn’t helping.” She sounds weary, old beyond her years.

Fury huffs, rolling his shoulders to loosen them.

“It looks like you’re giving the orders now, Rogers.”

He looks back at Bucky, trying to find some reassurance. Both he and Natasha are standing back, leaning on the doorframe, like they’re not sure how they fit into the tableau, or maybe they’re both just avoiding Fury, which Steve understands after everything that’s happened.

Bucky does shrug eventually, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You know I’d follow you to the end of the line, punk.”

Steve nods, smiles. “Okay then.”

Tony’s voice crackles through the comms unit. Steve can almost see him rubbing his hands together while Bruce looks on with exasperation.

“Alright, Jarvis has you patched through to the general comms. You’ve got the floor now, Rogers.”

He leans over the table, breathes once, twice, and speaks.

“Jedi. This is Steve Rogers. You’ve heard a lot about me. Some of you were even ordered to hunt me down. I think it’s time you know the truth.

“The Council has been taken over by the Sith. Alexander Pierce is their Master. I know that they’re in the building, and they almost have what they want.

“Absolute control. They framed Master Fury. Tortured a young Padawan, and it won’t end there.

“If you don’t resist him, the Sith will be able to kill anyone who stands in their way. Unless we stop them.

“I know I’m asking a lot. The price of freedom is high, always has been. And it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

“If I’m the only one then so be it, but I’m willing to bet I’m not.”

He watches the feeds on the screens. He sees people stopping, standing still in the libraries and the dormitories, walkways and kitchens. He sees the hands sliding to belts, sees the bright flares of lightsabers igniting.

He sees the hope and the determination. He can’t feel them, not down here, but for the first time in years, Steve feels like he belongs here.

He turns to look at the others, his team, his family. Hears the distant echoes of Tony and Bruce on the comms. Watches Natasha and Wanda and Bucky, pulling his lightsaber from his belt.

“Alright, suit up.”

Fury’s lightsaber and Natasha’s cache of weapons are easy enough to find in the secure locker near the entrance to the cells. She straps on her knives and blasters with grim determination. Running the edge of her thumb over the vibro blades before sheathing them.

Then Fury pulls out something else from the locker. A dusty lightsaber. He holds it in his hands, feeling the weight of it, face hooded and unreadable.

Then he looks up and holds it out to Wanda.

“You’re going to need this.”

“Master?”

“It’s the weapon of a Jedi, and you’ve earned it.”

She ignites the blade with a snap-hiss, the green light reflecting on the sharp angles of her cheekbones. It’s different to the practice blade, brighter, longer. There’s determination on her face, a controlled sort of temper that Steve hasn’t seen before.

She nods to Fury like one equal to another, and Steve feels his chest fill with pride.

He steps into the corridor with Bucky, their minds already aligned in the same direction. He turns to the others, and he thinks they all know already but he needs to say it. To put it into words.

“Go save everyone else. We’re going after Pierce.”

 

* * *

 

They both feel it, the pressure, the slow inching darkness as they make their way up to the High Council Chamber. They encounter no one, which in itself is a bad sign. No one to ask their business, to stop them, to challenge their presence.

Steve presses on the heavy door. It seems strange that no less than two days ago he was here, grilled and shamed by the Council. The same Council he’s now trying to save. When they enter, the room is in darkness, the only light coming from the glittering skyline of Coruscant city beyond the large windows that make up most of the walls of the Chamber.

The door closes behind them with a silent whoosh. The cold press of air intensifying around them. A high-pitched sound makes them both wince, and it takes Steve a moment to realize that it’s only in his head, the Force screeching as if in resistance to some invading sensation.

Pierce steps out of the shadows. His face is pale, lips pressed into a thin, wan smile.

“James. It’s good that you came back. Very good indeed.”

Bucky tenses next to him and then there’s the familiar snap-hiss of Steve’s lightsaber. Blue light humming in front of them, protecting them. It’s almost an instinct now. He isn’t going to let Pierce have any advantage, but the other man just smiles wider, spreading his hands out benevolently.

“Oh, there’s no need for that, Rogers.” He sounds calm. Almost happy as he speaks. “Not now, not here.”

Bucky’s reaching for his own lightsaber on his belt, Steve can see his fingers shaking from the corner of his eye. His hesitation makes Steve’s gut churn. It isn’t like Bucky to hesitate, not after the cells, not after it was his decision to come back.

“Oh, James. I don’t think so.” There’s a nasty edge to Pierce’s smile now as he spits out the words.

_“Sputnik.”_

There’s a sense of something, a yawning blackness, a closed fist, and Bucky freezes. Steve feels it, the change. Feels the sudden emptiness in him, the total lack of _Bucky_. He’s just vacant, an empty vessel. He never wants to feel anyone like that again.

“Bucky!”

In a panic, he drops his guard, turning to Bucky, reaching out for him.

Pierce is talking. “It’s no use, Rogers, he can’t hear you anymore.” Benevolent again, slowly making his way down the stairs and into the central circle. His dark cloak drags on the floor, the fabric hissing.

Suddenly Bucky blinks, igniting his lightsaber with a smooth motion, his hands now steady and strong. The silver gleams under the red light of the blade.The symbol of the Sith seems to mock him from Bucky’s shoulder.

Pierce’s voice is full of certainty, of victory. “Take him out. Now.”

Bucky pivots on his feet, turning fully towards Steve, lightsaber raised to guard. There’s no recognition in his eyes, none at all.

He manages to scream, “Bucky, please, Bucky!” when Bucky attacks, only able to block the strike from years of muscle memory. His mind still constantly reaching out to Bucky, trying to grasp onto something familiar, something to hold on to, but there’s nothing. Just smooth, gleaming walls holding Steve away.

Bucky’s driving him towards the corner, trying to restrict his movements. His fighting style is brutal, based more on strength than any finesse with the weapon. All the playfulness and trickery that made Bucky himself is gone.

“What did you do to him?!”

He can’t help the desperation in his voice and Pierce seems to almost feed on it, the Dark Side energy suddenly palpable in the room.

“Just reminded him who he belongs to, Rogers. And it isn’t you.” The insinuation makes Steve grit his teeth, and Pierce chuckles. “I should have known it was you, should have pulled it from his mind long ago. I won’t be so careless this time, I promise you.”

Bucky uses his distraction to drive Steve across the floor, making him leap over one of the chairs again. “Excellent,” Pierce says, somewhere to their left. Steve breathes in and counters, pushes Bucky back. Forcing him to retreat back to the middle of the room, their blades arcing and colliding in the air. Steve flips backwards over a line of chairs again to avoid Bucky’s blade.

“Good. Good.” Pierce is moving in the periphery. His voice is like honey, seductive and dark. Steve tries to concentrate on him, but Bucky won’t let him, pushing and pushing, fighting Steve with a relentless pace. Their lightsabers colliding in the air, sparks flying and burning the wooden floor.

On the next strike, by luck or by design Bucky misses his counter, overestimating his reach, and there’s Steve’s chance. His side is unprotected. But he can’t. He can’t take that opening, can’t hurt Bucky, even if it means his own destruction. Steve’s lightsaber clatters out of his hand, and Bucky moves to strike. There’s nothing on his face, just blank obedience, and Steve closes his eyes.

A voice echoes across the room – “Stop” – and Bucky freezes, blade in the air, humming only an inch away from Steve’s chest. Pierce moves closer, away from the shadows again, his cloak dragging heavily on the floor.

“Good. Very good.”

He then raises his hands, and Steve knows what will happen only a moment before the Force lightning hits his chest. He staggers back, his back hitting a railing. The electricity courses through him, making his limbs twitch. The pain is indescribable, like his bones are being ground up from the inside-out.

He sees Pierce’s face, lit up in sickly blues and whites. He looks shallow and sick, eyes sunken in, the hate, the Dark Side finally showing through on his countenance. Steve tries to breathe, tries to speak. Desperately gasping Bucky’s name.

“He can’t hear you. He won’t hear you,” Pierce mocks him, sending another bolt of lighting into Steve’s body.

Steve falls to the ground, writhing and gasping under the onslaught. He’s begging now, he knows, and not ashamed anymore, eyes fixed on Bucky’s blank expression, willing for something, for _anything_.

“Bucky, please.”

“I will make him kill you, slowly, painfully, in all the ways he knows you fear,” Pierce hisses between his teeth, spittle flying across his chin.

The next wave is brutal. Pierce’s fingers like claws in the air above Steve. He rolls over to his back, unable to control the twitching of his limbs. His hand falling to the side, palm opening, and something rolls to the floor from his hand with a clear, bright sound. A set of marbles. He knows they aren’t real, but still they click and roll on the smooth stone, scattering, the sound of them loud, amplified.

Pierce kicks them as they roll, one crunching to dust under his boot. “Stupid childish things you imagine.”

Bucky moves for the first time, lifting his head, looking to his side. Steve can see him behind Pierce, the way he’s looking at the small white marble which has rolled up to him, bumping the side of his foot. It’s almost like a shining little beacon next to his black boot, drawing the eye.

“Bucky, please.” Steve croaks. He can barely breathe anymore, his lungs frozen from pain and shock. Closing his eyes against the light once again streaking from Pierce’s fingers. His back twisting and arching under the agony Pierce is drawing from his body.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers, under the crackle of lightning and pain.

Then he hears it. The snap-hiss of a lightsaber. He opens his eyes just in time to see Bucky rise from the ground. An elegant and smooth turn as he gears up for the attack. The marble rolling away from him across the wooden floor.

Pierce hears it too, turns just in time to counter Bucky’s blow with his own lightsaber. Bucky’s face is calm, centered, and Steve can feel the Force coursing around him, in him. That perfect balance they always strive for, like listening to the hum of the universe, pressing your ear to the shell of a conch on the beach.

Their lightsabers connect above Steve’s head, sputtering and hissing, sparks flying through the air, but Steve barely hears it. His lungs burn and his muscles twitch.

“You will bow to me!” Pierce screams.

Bucky shakes his head, determined. “Not anymore.”

They move across the floor, red blade against red blade, the Force humming and crackling around them. Pierce tries to speak, but Bucky sends him sprawling with a swipe of his hand.

“I am not yours. Never again, do you hear me?!”

Pierce roars, a wordless, animal sound, lightning coursing from his fingers, striking Bucky’s chest, making him falter.

“You will kneel!”

Pierce sends another volley of light. It catches on Bucky's lightsaber, flashing over the blade and over Bucky's gloved hand. He looks up then at Pierce, smiles with his teeth.

“As you wish, Master.”

The word is spat out as Bucky suddenly slides onto his knees and across the smooth floor, avoiding the reach of Pierce’s blade. His lightsaber thrusting up as the blade sinks into Pierce’s stomach, and out through his back. Bucky heaves the blade up, carving Pierce’s body into two. The air is filled with the stench of charred flesh.

Pierce falls to the ground, slumped and torn apart, his eyes gazing white and milky and unseeing up at Bucky.

His blade shuts off, leaving them both in darkness. Fingers loose as the blade clatters on the floor. Then Bucky’s rushing across the floor and falling to his knees by Steve’s side.

“Oh god, Steve, I’m so sorry, Steve, I’m so sorry, oh god.”

He holds Steve’s face in his trembling hands, kisses his cheeks, his forehead. The ozone smell of the lightning still all over him, electricity still sparking on his clothing. Steve’s lungs are still on fire, making breathing hard, but he struggles to get the words out. Reaching out to hold Bucky’s shoulder, to pull him closer.

“You came back to me.”

“I did.” Bucky’s crying. Steve can feel the wetness on his face. “I always want to come back to you,” he whispers, desperate and afraid.

Steve reaches out, pulling him, hugging him into his chest. It’s over. It’s finally over.

 


	10. Epilogue

 

_Let there be truth between your heart and the Force. All else is transitory._  
― Surenit Kli'qiy

 

 

The days following the battle aren’t really a surprise to Steve. He wishes that they had been, but he knows it would have been naive to expect one Sith invasion attempt to override hundreds of years of history and custom.

While the Council has reluctantly admitted to being in his debt, grateful even for his assistance, they cannot feasibly accept Bucky back into the fold, not that Steve is sure that Bucky would even like to return to the Temple, or to the Order. There were a few dissident voices on both sides, those asking the Council to reconsider, to accept Bucky back, Fury among them, and those asking for Bucky and in some cases Steve, to be imprisoned and tried for their actions, including Master Coulson.

Bucky had stayed away from the Temple as much as possible during that time, his unease with the place as clear as day. He and Natasha had disappeared into the city on most days, sometimes with Tony and sometimes with Clint. Steve had left him to it, attending the meetings and sessions with Wanda by his side. He had greatly enjoyed how much the Conclave had been unnerved by her presence.

They had all stayed at Tony’s gaudy tower, both Wanda and Steve declining quarters at the Temple when they had been offered, the Council’s unease with Wanda making much of that decision for them early on. That particular choice had caused silent outrage with the more traditionally minded Masters, but Steve had paid them no mind. Ignored the fluttering acolytes who were giving him the stink-eye.

The Temple hadn’t felt like home to either of them for such a long time, and after Wanda had confessed to being keen to go back home, meaning Rishi, Steve’s decision for the future had been sealed. Fury did try to sway him, one last time, and Steve appreciated that he had tried, appreciated his loyalty to the Order, for wanting to change things from within.

They’re all there on the landing pad at the south side of the Temple. Steve suspects that the whole team had joined this particular excursion just to make sure that the Council would let both of them go. It had made him smile when they had all tumbled out of the small, sleek transport.

Fury gives them all exasperated looks, but turns to Steve, ignoring the commotion.

“Rogers. _Steve_. You could do so much good here. There’ll be a seat on the Council opening up soon and we could use you.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. He’s not sure if Fury is genuinely trying to ask him to stay or hastening his departure with that particular offer.

“I can’t, Master Fury, you know that,” he says with a faint smile. “I know they were all only doing what they believe in, and that’s all any of us can do, it’s all any of us should.”

Fury opens his mouth to speak, but Steve interrupts him. “So, no matter what, I promise if you — if you need us. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

He hands Fury a folded piece of paper with the dial codes for their house on Rishi. Natasha had given him hell for it earlier in the day, but had eventually relented, with a muttered, “better the devil you know.”

He trusts Fury with the location and with the responsibility of calling them if needed. It’s not like they’re cutting all of their ties. Tony will always have a base in Coruscant, as he’s been loudly reminding them.

As he turns to leave, Fury reaches out, catching Steve’s elbow.

“Before you go, there’s one more thing.”

From within the folders of his robes, Fury pulls out a small silver dagger. It’s curved, intricately carved and worn with years and years of use.

Steve knows exactly what it is.

He holds out both of his hands, allowing Fury to gently place it in his cupped palms with the appropriate reference. He turns to the waiting crowd, nodding to one person in particular.

“Wanda, please step forward.”

Steve knows it should be a grander, bigger event, and everyone should be there, but as he looks around the landing pad at Bucky, Natasha and Clint, Tony and Bruce and Thor, he thinks maybe everyone Wanda needs is there already.

Now that he finally has all the time in the world, the words escape him, all eloquence and gravity suddenly gone. Maybe Wanda knows, because she’s smirking, twirling the end of her Padawan braid between her fingers. Steve tries to school his expression into some level of seriousness as he starts to speak.

“Wanda, it has been a privilege to teach you, and be taught by you, as it’s not just you who has learned and changed.”

She beams at him, and he can feel the ghost echo of Bucky’s smile in his head. _Softie_ , Steve calls out to him silently, only to be met with laughter.

He turns his attention back to Wanda.

“You have shown fortitude and kindness, and courage under fire. You know the meaning of sacrifice more than many who carry the Jedi title. It is truly my honor to bestow upon you the full title of Jedi Knight.”

He reaches out to holds the braid between his fingers. Her hair is soft and thick. He fits the blade against the side of the neck, right at the root, and make the cut. It’s such a small motion of his hand, and then the braid falls, coiling into her palm.

She places her palm over his, her long, cool fingers, capable of so much power.

“Thank you, Steve.”

Thor starts to holler and clap and everyone joins in, even Fury.

It’s many hours later when Steve finds her in the roof garden of Stark’s enormous tower. The night is cool and the lights of Coruscant blink around them.

As Steve approaches her at the balcony edge, he can see a small bowl in front of her, and in her hands an old-fashioned flint. She waits for him, poised and still. She finally strikes the flint as soon as he’s standing beside her, once, twice, and the kindling and the coiled braid catch fire.

It is customary, the burning of the Padawan braid: there’s a ceremony just for this at the Temple. The disappearing of the past and the acceptance of an unknown future. He hadn’t offered it to her, never thinking she would want this moment to be public.

They both watch it burn, the smoke looping and coiling up into the sky until it all but disappears. He can feel where her thoughts are wandering, but he waits, lets her find her own words, her own time.

“We were going to graduate together, do everything together. That was always the plan.”

Steve doesn’t have to ask whom she’s speaking of. That quicksilver boy with a tuft of white hair and an easy smile. He feels the ghosts around them tonight, an axis of change, the Force twisting and moving around them.

“He would have been proud of you, Wanda,” he says, trying to not let his voice shake. “So proud.”

She shrugs, loose and easy, but Steve can feel the emotion bubbling under the surface.

“I know. I feel him sometimes when I meditate, just a brief touch of something familiar.”

There’s an ache in his chest, a guilt that the one he lost came back. He tries to press the feelings back. Wanda doesn’t deserve them, doesn’t need Steve’s guilt or apologies. Instead, he looks up into the sky. The light pollution makes it sometimes hard to see the stars, but they are there, blinking in the inky night.

“He’s never truly gone from you, not for your whole life, and when that span is over, he’ll be there.”

“I’m one with the Force, the Force is with me,” she whispers, her voice breaking at the end.

Steve pulls her to his side, placing a soft kiss over her hair, not saying anything about the tears he can see. Just whispers, “I’m so proud of you, too.”

 

* * *

 

Of all the things Steve loves about life on Rishi – and there are a lot of them, from the sunshine to its massive distance from the Jedi Council to the feeling of actually having more than one friend for the first time in his life – his massive bed, with Bucky in it, has got to be the best.

Bucky’s whimpering softly as Steve sinks into him, his hips bucking up to meet Steve’s thrusts. They’ve been going for a while, not rushing, just slow, easy movements, Steve blanketing Bucky’s body with his own as they lie face-down so that he can cover Bucky’s neck and shoulders in biting kisses.

“This is definitely getting better the more we do it,” Bucky sighs, as Steve drags his tongue down his vertebrae. He shivers. “ _Steve._ ”

Steve answers him by thrusting slightly harder, feeling a thrill of satisfaction when Bucky moans. He’s right; every time they make love, it brings them greater pleasure. Not that it’s all been perfect, but patience, communication, and the proper amount of lube have got them a long way.

He loves it all ways, he’s found. After so many years of telling himself not to think about Bucky, being able to share this joy with him is so much sweeter. In bed. On the floor. Up against the wall. In the sea. On the sand, as long as Tony doesn’t catch them and they’re careful with a beach towel. In the long shady grass. Anywhere, as long as it’s the two of them.

Steve nuzzles into Bucky’s hair, feels his thundering pulse, and thinks his heart might burst.

“You’re a sap,” Bucky tells him. “I can _hear_ you thinking.”

“No, you can’t.”

“No, I can’t,” Bucky concedes. Their bond isn’t that strong yet; they haven’t quite managed the effortless mind-linking they’ve achieved in sleep, but it’s getting easier, and they’re aware of each other at all times. More importantly, they’ve managed to avoid dragging anyone else into their connection, which has saved them a lot of blushes. “But I can imagine. Blah, blah, blah, love, yadda yadda – _hey!_ ”

He breaks off as Steve sinks his teeth into his neck, perhaps slightly deeper than is necessary, and then retaliates with a particularly long roll of his hips, raising himself on his arms. Through the window, the sunlight glints off his left arm, the freshly painted star on his shoulder shining a fiery red.

“You telling me you don’t feel the same?” Steve teases, taking Bucky by the hips and easing him up onto hands and his knees so he can reach down to squeeze his cock.

“Never, darlin’,” Bucky promises. “Never.”

Steve’s rocking into Bucky is earnest now, and he can feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine. Bucky pushes back, more leverage now he’s up on all fours, and then he’s groaning and spurting into Steve’s hand, clenching and pulling Steve over the edge with him.

“Bucky,” Steve gasps, “ _Bucky_ ,” and they collapse in a heap onto the bed, panting.

It would be disgusting if it didn’t feel so good, lying there catching their breath, both of them sweaty and disheveled in the heat of the day.

“Shower?” Steve asks, once he can breathe again.

“Food,” Bucky answers decisively, but he doesn’t move, or say anything further. Steve sighs.

“You want me to go get you something?”

“Fruit,” Bucky says, without rolling over. “And some bread. And some juice. Too hot for anything else.”

“Okay.”

Steve carefully slides out of Bucky’s body, planting a kiss on his shoulder, and walks over to the sink, splashing himself down with cool water so that he looks halfway decent and maybe not like he’s been doing...exactly what he’s been doing. No sense in giving Tony more ammunition.

“Thank you, oh most excellent provider,” Bucky calls, and Steve throws the damp washcloth at him. It lands with a spectacular _splat_ on his ass, which makes Bucky give an indignant squawk. Steve chuckles and pulls on his shorts; that’ll do for now.

He walks down the steps and out into the sunlight, yawning and stretching and feeling pretty damn amazing. It’s a short walk, but it takes him past most of the other huts. As he passes the one now shared by Clint and Natasha – although Natasha stares daggers at anyone who brings it up – he hears a cry of “Get that thing out of here!” followed by the thump of what sounds like a shoe hitting the wall and a familiar growling noise. Then the door of the hut opens and Fluffy tumbles down the steps, landing in a heap on the sand.

When Fluffy notices Steve, he – not that they’re sure Fluffy’s a _he_ , but neither of them can quite bring themselves to check, or even knows where to look – galumphs joyfully up to him, his many tentacles floundering on the sand, and crashes into his knees. Steve reaches down to scratch his scaly head, and Fluffy makes the strange chittering noise that they think means he’s happy. It’s hard to tell, but it doesn’t make him bite, so they’re counting it as a win.

A moment later, Clint stumbles out, walking with a slight limp.

“I wish you’d keep him in your hut,” he growls.

“Can’t,” Steve says cheerfully. “He likes to watch, and we’ve been busy.”

“I _know_ he likes to watch,” Clint says. “Why do you think I want him to stay in your hut?”

“Why are you limping? Was that him?” Steve asks, concerned. Fluffy’s never seriously injured anyone, as his teeth are too blunt to do any damage, but he and Bucky are going to have to try training the creature if he’s going to hurt people.

“No,” Clint mumbles, flushing suddenly scarlet, and Steve does some quick thinking, remembering the package Natasha received last week, which she had clutched gleefully after opening, and then shuts up.

When Natasha sticks her head out of the hut window a moment later, calling “Clint! Get back here, I hadn’t finished!”, Clint goes eagerly, limping back up the steps, and Steve and Fluffy carry on towards the kitchen.

Fluffy really isn’t very good at moving on the sand; he has to kind of swim through it, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Steve knows better than to try and carry him; he’s strangely dense, and even Steve’s arms get tired after a while. And it’s not like he’s in a hurry.

As he passes a group of trees, he sees Thor, deep in a HoloNet conversation with a tall, thin figure. It looks serious, and Steve puts a pre-emptive hand on Fluffy’s collar, because otherwise he’ll make a dash, and although Thor adores him, now doesn’t look like a good time to interrupt. A few words of the conversation drift over to them.

“But brother, it has been so long…and you know there is nothing you can do that I would not forgive, even after all this time.”

He can’t catch what the other man is saying, but the somber tone of Thor’s voice, so unusual for him, is enough to convince Steve to keep walking.

The lab area that was once confined to floating on the sea has spread: Tony and Bruce have now commandeered some of the empty huts as well and have connected them with a tent-like structure that allows them to do some of their work in the open air. Tony has spread a tarp out on the sand and is vacuuming an inverted Dum-E, who is waving his arms feebly.

“How many times have I _told_ you, _not_ on the sand!” Tony is saying, exasperated. “It clogs up all your joints. You’ve been chasing that ridiculous beast again, haven’t you? I don’t have time for this.”

Dum-E makes a sad clanging noise.

“Not like we’ve got much else to do,” Bruce points out reasonably. “On this island paradise. When nobody knows where we are.”

“If I was dead, I’d have better things to do than vacuum out this junk bucket,” Tony says, but the affection in his voice is at odds with his words. “Like watch _an actual lightsaber_ being made right in front of my eyes.”

He looks longingly over to where Wanda is working with her kyber crystals, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’s set up a small tent and has her sleeves rolled up, holding a tiny wrench in one hand.

“You’re going to leave me alone, Stark,” Wanda says, without even taking her eyes off her work.

“I’m going to leave you alone, Wanda,” Tony repeats meekly, and goes back to his vacuuming.

As Steve walks past, Wanda winks at him, and he has another moment of almost insufferable pride in his apprentice. And then he reminds himself she’s not his apprentice anymore, and feels even more proud.

Fluffy waits outside while Steve gathers up food for Bucky. They still haven’t been able to work out what Fluffy eats. So far, nobody has ever seen him do it, and he’s refused everything they’ve ever offered him, shunning the kitchen in favour of lolling on the sand and batting around empty coconut shells. Steve chops up a selection of fruit into bite-sized pieces and arranges it on a tray, thinking fondly of how he plans to hand-feed it to Bucky when he gets back to the hut. Then he takes some of the bread and sweet honey cakes, fills a jug with grapefruit juice, and steps back outside.

As he walks past Tony and Bruce, who are bickering again, and Thor, still deep in his HoloNet conversation, and tries hard _not_ to listen to the sounds coming from Clint and Natasha’s hut while Fluffy bounces adoringly off his shins, he thinks about everything that has changed in the last few weeks. This time three months ago, he was still on Baros, lonely and regretful and unsure of his path, his mind clouded and his heart heavy. Now he’s guided an apprentice through the final stages of her training, has found friends, and his heart is no longer empty, but full, his love for Bucky clearing the way like the sun shining through clouds. Now he has learned his truth, is living it, and nothing stands between him and the Force.

“Steve?” Bucky calls plaintively through the window, shattering his contemplation. “Are you back yet? I’m really hungry!”

He grins. After everything their lives has put them through, the Force has led them back together, not as perfect beings, but as real people. To hear Bucky’s voice again, to share his life with him, is its greatest gift.

“I’m right here,” he calls back, and climbs the steps to his heart’s home.

 


End file.
